


Three States

by kalijean, SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [64]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1998), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-20
Updated: 2011-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>July 1998: Ray takes a hit to the vest. The result? Three states, three days, and two men in the best sort of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Ray Vecchio was in trouble. He just didn't know it yet.

It was hot and the smell of garbage threatened to make him gag with every careful step. Inside of the apartment building, the lights were barely working and two out of three windows were blacked out. It felt like evening in the middle of the broad daylight; felt like drowning in heat and stench, until he was almost sure he was going to puke with every single breath in.

Ray kept his sidearm at low ready, edging towards the door. Two uniforms behind him, both of them seasoned and ready. They were looking to serve a warrant on a dealer who was using the apartment as an 'office'; looking to get him to see if he would roll on his supplier, who was a suspect in a murder case. The more evidence, the better.

It wasn't quite enough to warrant a SWAT team -- the dealer himself was relatively useless kinda scum, no record of violence, and so far as their casing had allowed, he was the only one who had come in or out of the building.

The door wasn't even closed. Ray kept his firearm down and swung a quick peek around the door.

Nothing.

He gestured back to the uniforms behind him that it was so-far-so-good.

And that was when all Hell broke loose.

There was a flash of movement at the other end of the hall before the shots rang out; he brought his gun up to bear -- _"GUN!"_ \-- when pain exploded in his ribcage - once-twice - he hit the ground - he heard the uniforms return fire - heard the shouts of 'Drop it!' - heard one call for backup and a squad - heard the other give chase - felt the chest-crushing ache from the impact to his vest - thought he saw a flash of Muldoon getting away - he couldn't _breathe_ \- heard someone telling him to hold still--

The rest was all a blur.


	2. Chapter 2

Francesca Vecchio was on the phone.

This should not have been unusual. There were still ongoing communication between the 27th precinct and the Consulate by virtue of the Muldoon mess alone, not to mention a mess of other cases with which Benton Fraser had been involved.

Now even Turnbull had something to say on one or two, considering his ride-along habit.

No, what was unusual was the sound -- by now a familiar almost monotone -- of Lieutenant Welsh in the background, and the immediate mid-sentence hush of Francesca.

Even Turnbull's exceptional hearing missed most of whatever soft information Welsh gave her. She must have covered the receiver. He caught a bit of a rustle, the first names of two of the Vecchio siblings, and what he thought was something about giving her a ride. When her voice came again down the line, it was cracked.

"--I've gotta go, Turnbull." She sighed down the receiver, something anxious and shuddering, and hung up.

"Of-- of course," Turnbull answered, fully aware there was no one to hear him.

Something inside him sank.

Face fallen, he blinked at the phone in his hand, threads of a thousand possibilities branching at frightening speed. None of them good. He couldn't pinpoint the moment he'd come to believe it his place to pry into what went on at the 2-7, but his gut was in knots _now_. Francesca was given to the occasional moments of something he would privately label as melodrama, but that particular tone of voice never boded well.

Inspector Thatcher wandered by carrying a file folder and gave Turnbull a short once-over. "You have to _dial_ it for it to work, Constable." It was a casually thrown comment at his expense. Nothing unusual.

Turnbull snapped a look her way, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.

Thatcher actually _started_ , freezing for a moment to stare incredulously.

Schooled, his glare melted away with a blink. "Of course, sir. How silly of me."

She squinted at him for a long, suspicious moment before nodding apparent approval and going -- slowly -- about her business.

Turnbull's eyes fell again to the phone he was holding. He pressed the button to get another dialtone and redialed the precinct, this time asking for Ray Vecchio's desk.

 

 

It took four different people offering four different answers for Turnbull to get anything he could consider reliable, and it certainly didn't make him feel any better. In the meantime, he felt like his heart was going to beat its way out of his ribcage and make quite the untidy mess on his desk. It didn't help that the first thing he heard, said with a casualness that made him want to tear out of his skin, was that Ray had been shot.

"Yeah, I hear he got into a shootout with a bunch of drug dealers," Huey said into the phone, having been the first to answer. Then, apparently, he was unaware that he had a half-panicking Mountie on the other end and took his mouth away from the phone to talk to Dewey. "That's just what I heard."

"--give me that. Turnbull? That you?" Dewey now had the phone. "I heard that he just stumbled into some kind of situation with a single drug dealer, but word is, he's not dead."

Turnbull went to open his mouth, trying to ask a question -- he wasn't even sure what question -- but nothing came out. That statement _should_ have been a relief. It wasn't, quite. He couldn't understand how they could treat this with such nonchalance. In the meantime, Thompson was ranting in the background and Dewey took the phone away from his ear to yell back, "I'm just telling him what I know! Get off my back already, unless you got the answer!"

Which, of course, led to person number three being passed Detective Vecchio's phone. And Thompson's slow voice came on. "Excuse me, Constable, but I believe that it was an ambush, and that they were laying in wait."

Finally, Welsh's voice broke into the sudden argument between the three detectives, and by then, Turnbull was wondering if he could crawl through the phone line and perhaps apply the receiver liberally to their heads. He didn't even realize how hard he was gripping his own, until he heard a little _crack_.

"All right, enough. You're all speculating." Welsh's voice came into clear definition on the other end. "Listen: Vecchio was serving a warrant on a small-time dealer. Word is that the guy wasn't in the room, but he came around the corner and fired. According to what I know -- which isn't everything, but it's damn good enough -- he took two shots to the vest, and it stopped them from punching holes in him. Got it?"

There was the handsome _thud_ of his forehead bouncing off the desk down the line before Turnbull answered in a strained affirmative.

And they all called _him_ flighty.

At the very least, they seemed to agree on which hospital to find. Which was convenient, because the first thing Turnbull did upon hanging up the phone was scramble to go find Inspector Thatcher.

He found a wall instead.

It was comedic, really. Turnbull knew that it should be, sitting crumpled to the floor with his eyes crossed at his aching nose.

Somehow, he guessed that wasn't the last self-battering he was in for before the day was out.

Renfield was far more terse with the taxi agency than he'd meant to be, and he all but forgot to ask permission to leave. One part panicked, one part dangerous, Turnbull's state coupled with the nice red mark on his face had been enough to convince Inspector Thatcher to grant that sick leave.

Which was to say, it got a 'fine, get out, dismissed' that functioned just as well.

No holes. No holes. Turnbull reminded himself to breathe on the taxi ride over. Normally he'd rely on his own two feet. Not today.

 

Francesca Vecchio was still on the phone.

The hospital corridor was a chaos of Vecchios. Turnbull thought that was the perfect collective noun for them; a 'mess' seemed disrespectful. A 'pack' was entirely too organized. A chaos. He felt it did their collective presence honor.

This was precisely no time to play word games in his own head.

Francesca was chattering, half-choked up, to someone over what appeared to be Ray's cell phone. It was fortunate, if frightening; details were rattled off rapid-fire within his earshot. Turnbull wondered idly who she was updating.

Then he remembered it wasn't his business.

Neither, in fact, did he believe anyone would think it was his business to be here. Turnbull shyly removed his stetson, pressing it to his chest. He offered Francesca the smallest wave, something sympathetic to go with the look of sick worry on his face.

She completely failed to notice, pacing across the floor as she kept chattering.

The other Vecchios didn't pay him much mind, either; huddled together, there was quite a mix of worries, frustrations, irritations and proclamations that Ray should consider retiring. Turnbull didn't particularly mean to eavesdrop -- in fact, he would have preferred to stay far away from that conversation, but since they would be the first given information, he had little choice but to stay close-- but they spoke so _loudly_ that it was impossible to not-hear the discussion. That didn't mean he didn't try; in fact, he found one of those diamond-shaped floor tiles and stared at it, trying to focus so much on it that the words just floated around his head without landing.

That almost worked, until Francesca gave his arm a tug, pulling the phone away from her ear to ask, "What are you doing here?"

It was almost a hiss and it made Turnbull want to melt into the floor. Or the wall. Or, for that matter, just about anything solid that would put some sort of barrier between him and Francesca. Not gifted with any supernatural abilities, however, he stared back, opening his mouth to answer.

"Look, I have my family with me. It's really sweet of you to come all the way here to check on me and make sure I'm okay, but I'm fine."

It took him a scrambling moment to realize she was talking to _him_ and not the phone. He still couldn't seem to force a reply. He was too busy staring, mouth hanging open.

Francesca kept claim on that arm and looped her own through it, which didn't help with that urge to melt into something. She went back to the phone for a moment, saying, "Yeah, I'll let you know when I know. Ma's fine, she's just shaken up. Marie's got her. ... Okay, I love you too. Bye." She closed the phone and then looked up at Turnbull again, seriously. "It really is very sweet of you, but just because I hung up the phone on you doesn't mean--"

"I'm here for Ray."

It was Francesca's turn to blink, agape. Mouth working. Just staring up at him, dumbfounded.

Now was not the time to turn red, but Turnbull did. He clutched his stetson a little tighter, trying to follow that statement up with something else, but finding _nothing_ whatsoever. Which just left both of them staring blankly at each other.

Finally, Francesca managed to find words. "You're... here for my brother?"

"Yes." There, that wasn't so hard. He was a little shocked that she thought otherwise, given how much time of late he'd been spending with Ray Vecchio. "Though, I would be glad to offer whatever support-- I mean, should your family need anything--"

"You're here for _Ray_?"

If he could have shrunk down to the size of a Lilliputian, it would have been an accurate representation to how he felt. Turnbull just managed a nod. He was being stared at by Francesca Vecchio -- she still had very pretty eyes -- and by now, the rest of the chaos of Vecchios had fallen quiet to watch, and he thought _running away_ was rapidly becoming an option. He wasn't even sure why he wanted to run away, but under the scrutiny, he was given to think that perhaps he had done something wrong that he had yet to become aware of, and--

"Oh," Francesca said, slowly letting go of his arm. She looked disoriented. "I thought you... I guess I thought you were hanging around so much to be near me."

Turnbull glanced down at his own arm, immensely relieved that the contact had ceased; he wasn't comfortable being touched. Even so, he would've traded more of it to have the sea of _eyes_ off him.

He was scrambling again for something to say, and a few stutters later, provided precisely the wrong thing. "No." That was it. He was gaping at her, she was gaping at him, and he could provide nothing else.

Francesca seemed to shrink back, hugging herself with the phone tucked under one arm. "Oh," she repeated, pressing her lips together and turning around.

It wasn't helping that melt-into-something urge. "Perhaps I should wait outside." Turnbull was backing up by short steps, gesturing with his stetson, intensely aware of his avenue of exit. The debate between worrying for Ray and knowing his place in being here were quite at war with one another. "Of course it isn't-- my business, perhaps I should not have come--"

At some point in the proceedings, the matriarch of the Vecchio family had stood slowly up. "Don't be silly, dear."

That was a fine way to get Turnbull to stop in his backward tracks. Hat abuse of that type should really be against the uniform code.

Even Francesca turned a surprised look to her mother, though it appeared to be more for the shock of the interrupted conversation than any surprise at the sentiment. "Ma--"

"Of course the Mountie's welcome, Francesca."

Ah. Yes. Of course. The Mountie. Turnbull wondered briefly if Mrs. Vecchio had even seen enough of Benton Fraser to notice that there had been a change. Considering that most people thought of Turnbull as a cheap replacement, Turnbull would be reasonably grateful if she hadn't.

The woman looked exhausted, ragged, but still projected a kind of firm but mothering presence that not even Turnbull could quite resist. She took her arm off one of the children to gesture widely at Turnbull. "Come here. What is your name, sweetheart?"

Turnbull was taking a few tentative steps forward, trying to shake off enough of his mental lockup to answer her, when a doctor stepped into the hallway flipping through a chart.

Conversation died. All eyes fell to the man.

Quite apparently, nonchalance was not the sole purview of the 2-7; his voice was half-absent. Not quite dismissive, but something along the lines of having his mind somewhere else and not particularly feeling it important to drag it back. The doctor gestured with the chart. "Vecchio family?" When he got a nod or five, he continued, "Chest x-rays are fine. He has substantial bruising and it's caused the nerve damage from prior injury to flare, but there's no permanent damage from this particular injury. We'll keep him for observation overnight; I'll send a nurse down to tell you which room he's in as soon as he's in there."

It was clipped, it was detached and it was somehow very _irritating_. An entire family was standing here, hearts in their throats, and it rather galled Turnbull that more compassion couldn't be displayed.

Even more galling, the doctor didn't bother to wait around to answer any questions the Vecchios might have had. Silence fell again, as everyone stared after the white coat that had disappeared down the hallway, and then finally, Maria spoke up. "Prick."

Red-faced though he was, Turnbull's first thought was ' _indeed_ '. Which was why Ma Vecchio reaching out to swat Maria confused him greatly.

"There is no excuse for swearing. And in front of a _guest_." The exchange had broken the spell left in the doctor's wake, and Ma Vecchio looked immediately back to Turnbull, gesturing him over again. "What's your name, dear?"

She must have known the difference. That fact hadn't quite registered the first time she asked.

"Constable Turnbull, ma'am. I'm terribly sorry to have intruded, it was not at all my intention to--"

"Stop that now." She waved it off with one hand. "What's your _name_ , dear?"

"...Renfield, ma'am."

Tony snorted, earning a glare from just about everyone but Francesca, who still looked dazed.

"Hello, Renfield," Mrs. Vecchio offered with a soft, if exhausted, little smile. It seemed as though an opportunity for mothering was better than more worried chatter, and for that matter, the definitive news that Ray would be all right had deflated quite a bit of tension. "Lovely to meet you. Stop fidgeting, dear, it makes me nervous. Find a seat. Calm down. You look like you're about to run away."

Dumbstruck stare permanently fixed to his face, Turnbull did as he was told, settling back in a seat. "--likewise, ma'am. That is-- it being a pleasure to meet you, not the, ah-- hm. Running away..."

"Good boy. Knowing this hospital, we'll be here a while, you might as well be comfortable. Are you friends with my son? You were worried about him? That's very sweet, dear. Why hasn't he ever brought you over for dinner?"

That was a fairly good question, but the answer was one that Turnbull wasn't particularly willing to guess about at this juncture. There was actually quite a bit that he _didn't_ know about Ray Vecchio, and he had made it something of a point not to question that. He figured -- rightly, to his own mind -- that the man's personal life was his own business. "I-- I'm not particularly-- that is to say, I don't know. I hadn't thought to ask."

"Well, we should change that. I can't understand what's gotten into him." She sank into her own seat, settling with an expression that suggested she had a great deal of weight on her shoulders and was relieved to share it with the chair. "He has not been the same since he came back from that horrible job. I wasn't even invited to his _wedding_ ; imagine that."

"He wasn't even invited to his _own_ wedding, Ma," Frannie grumbled, apparently breaking from her daze. "He wasn't even invited to his own _divorce_."

There was quite a long moment where Turnbull was absolutely sure that he was in the single most awkward place in the universe. Not for the first time, but now, it felt like it was magnified ten-fold.

Mercifully enough, it seemed to temporarily distract the Vecchios. "There's something weird up with him," Tony said, leaning against the wall. "I think he's got a honey or three on the side. He spends way too many nights out late."

...oh. Dear.

Turnbull thought better of it only two seconds after it was out of his mouth, speaking up in innocent defense of Ray, who he could not imagine having any... 'honeys' on the side. "I assure you, he isn't... that is, most evenings of late, we've worked together on his cases and occasionally shared dinner."

Of course, after that two seconds and the entire chaos of Vecchios turning their gazes back on him, Turnbull had a sudden, definite urge to _hide behind a chair_.

It was Tony who narrowed his eyes, giving Turnbull long look up and down. After a moment, he snorted again.

Hat abuse. Turnbull was sure now he was committing hat abuse for how tightly he was holding it, and he was absolutely, painfully, abidingly, hilariously sure that he knew exactly what the entire chaos of them were thinking. Something along the lines of ' _empty red suit_ '.

"What, do you Mountie guys come issued with the badge, or something?" Tony was on the receiving end of quite the arm slap from his wife for that one, and they glared at one another for an excruciatingly awkward moment before Tony apologized without looking away from her. "Sorry."

"No apology is necessary." It was quiet. Too quiet. He wanted to laugh for it, really.

Tony was looking off, muttering more quietly. "What? I thought it was funny..."

Maria groaned and put a hand to her own forehead.

Turnbull was exceptionally grateful for Mrs. Vecchio about then; she interjected again, pointedly resuming the conversation. "That's nice, dear. It's sweet of you to keep him busy."

Francesca muttered something along the lines of it making no _sense_ and it wasn't hard to gather what she was talking about. Namely, her firm belief that the only reason Turnbull was hanging around was because of her. While he could, perhaps, follow the... disturbing, illogical tracks she took to that particular thought, he couldn't quite fathom why she would be so offended when it turned out to be her brother whose company he was seeking.

He wasn't entirely ready to get into that right now, and so, he focused on Mrs. Vecchio. "It's been a rewarding experience for a number of reasons, not least of which is that your son is a fine detective, and it's admittedly been quite some time since I've been allowed to engage in police work versus more secretarial and ceremonial duties--"

" _You_ did police work?" Francesca asked, disbelief in every note.

It was one of those moments where Turnbull could have gone either way -- shrank back and politely stammered it off, or held his ground. He wasn't certain of how he could have been so desperate to change the subject that he would resort to that one. It took a moment of wrestling with himself, but he fell on the side of the latter.

He wasn't even sure why. But after Thatcher's off-handed remark earlier, after listening to the 2-7 speculating on Ray's life or the potential ending of it, after all of it, even the spike of anxiety he felt wasn't enough to stop him from answering in a voice he only rarely used these days, "Yes, Francesca; before the consulate, I was stationed in Nipawin, Saskatchewan, and while the community was small and often quiet, I did act and function as a police officer."

If the knowledge wasn't enough to throw her off, the tone likely was. And it was then the most _disturbing_ look dawned in her eyes. It was a look that he had seen many a time, and it was always -- invariably -- aimed at Benton Fraser.

It wasn't as though the entire Vecchio chaos couldn't smell that attitude on Francesca from ten paces.

A kind of sickly-sweet smile appeared on her face, and Turnbull found himself very slowly getting _up_.

Tony snorted a third time. At least he had the good grace to try and cover it, though it still earned him an elbow in the side from his wife.

" _Really_?" Francesca asked, as though it was suddenly the most fascinating subject under the sun.

"Yes," Turnbull replied quickly, taking a step back. There was a bitter little thought of _Why couldn't you have asked about that when I still might've been interested?_ That seemed like a long time ago, now. "I would be-- ah-- happy to tell you more about it, except I'm afraid I find myself quite-- quite hungry at the moment and-- ah... I will... hm." He gestured with his hat, that sweet duty smile back on his face for fear that anything else would only draw more of her attention. "I will be over here."

Turnbull couldn't kid himself that the word for what he did next was anything but 'flee'.

 

Francesca Vecchio was on the phone.

Raymond Vecchio wished he had the brain power to coordinate throwing the call button at her, but the damn thing was attached to a cord, and it wouldn't reach even if he could throw it. She was apparently gushing to one of her girlfriends about...

 _Turnbull?_

Ray thought about telling her to leave the Mountie alone, but then he had his mother stroking his forehead and he had to keep down any biting comments towards Frannie while reassuring his mother that he really was okay, and yeah, this sucked, but he was doped up pretty good against the pain and his vest had protected him from the worst of it.

"Ma, Ma... I'm fine. Just kinda sleepy," he said, for what felt like the hundredth time. It was true. He was sleepy. Whatever they gave him made him want to close his eyes. He felt a little chilled, but that was a fair trade against the crushing, knife-like pain he'd been in before. "Doc says I'll be out tomorrow."

"Oh, Raimundo, this job of yours. It will make me an old woman before my time." She leaned in to kiss his forehead, and Ray felt a spike of ache that had nothing to do with the physical.

"I promise, Ma, I'm okay. It's nothin'. Just some bruises." He closed his eyes, and then when she drew away, he barked at Frannie, "Will you knock that off?"

"What?!" she demanded back, eying him in pure indignation, holding the phone away from her mouth.

"Don't get any ideas about him, Frannie." It was a warning, and Ray meant it. He wasn't ready to go through this dance again.

She narrowed her eyes back at him, pointing with the still-connected phone. "Who I choose to see is none of your business, brother-mine, so just _back off_."

"My friend, my business. Leave him alone."

"Enough, already," Marie said, stealing in to give Ray a kiss on the forehead as well. She looked tired, thoroughly irritated and more than a little ready to go home. She dropped her voice, "I'll take them home, we just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Ray couldn't quite help but smile for that. "Promise?"

"Yeah," Marie answered, resting her forehead against his for a moment. Then she straightened up and gestured to the door. "C'mon, let's go. Let's let him rest."

Frannie eyed him some more, and somehow managed both a sweet kiss to his cheek while still hanging onto that glare. Ray understood both gestures, instinctively. _'I love you, and you're a pain in my ass.'_ The smile he gave back to her just made her glare even more. Tony waved, awkwardly. And Marie walked with Ma to the door. Frannie was already back on the phone, already back doing exactly what he told her _not_ to do, which was get ideas off of her girlfriend on how to seduce hapless Mounties.

Speaking of...

Ray eyed the phone, and then tried to get his rather battered, very drugged body to move. He had no clue what time it was, but he should at least call Ren and let him know that he wasn't gonna be there to pick him up from work...

 

 

There was a Mountie floating around outside the door.

That was to say; pacing. Flittering. Wandering. Fidgeting. Bouncing. Hovering. Loitering.

Turnbull really had to stifle the urge to be a walking thesaurus when he was nervous. It wasn't as if he could usually get the words out of his mouth once he'd thought of them.

Honestly, he had obscured his face with his hat when Francesca exited. Like he might be able to camouflage himself with it. He felt utterly silly when he lowered it to discover she'd been far too engrossed in her phone conversation - and he thought he caught his _name_ , for pity's sake - to have seen him.

He wandered, flittered, hovered for a little while after. Gathering will.

A passing nurse eyed him warily, and Turnbull offered him an earnest smile. It didn't seem to help. The nurse eyed him critically..

Turnbull figured he'd better pick something and go with it.

In the end, he clutched that poor, abused hat to his chest even tighter, and he slipped into Ray's room, utterly lost for something to say.

Well, maybe there was one thing he could do. Ray was clearly trying to get to the phone, and also clearly having a hard time of it, so Turnbull stepped over to pick it up and offer it.

"Oh, hey, thanks..." Ray said, taking it and then staring for a long moment up, kind of dumbfounded. Turnbull had a brief thought about whether this was going to be the theme of the day -- speechless Vecchios, in singles or a chaos.

Then Ray's face broke into a kind of wondering smile. His expression was dazed, but clearly pleased and surprised and touched. "Wow, you came all the way over here to see me? I was just about to call and tell you I couldn't pick you up, 'cause I'm here at the hospital and that."

"It's-- well, it's 7:00PM," Turnbull answered, not entirely sure _what_ to do with that look he was getting. It was... startling? Startling. He wasn't often one to get a look like that. He wasn't even sure what feeling he could ascribe to it. "I thought to-- I mean, I was concerned when I heard you'd been wounded." Understatement.

"Ahh, I'm okay," Ray said, then tried to put the phone back. Rather like trying to throw the receiver at the cradle. "Sorry I wasn't there to pick you up. Wrong guy in the wrong place, and the next thing I know, things go crazy."

Turnbull took the receiver as deftly as he'd handed it over, placing it back on the cradle. "Detective, that's hardly something for which you should apologize. You were fulfilling your duty. It does not compare in the least to having me walk home." He sighed quietly before letting his hand slip from the phone. "However... you really should be far more _careful_..." The extent of his worry bled through a little at that, and he cleared his throat before turning his duty grin back on Ray.

"Hey." The word was drawn, soft. Ray put his hand to the edge of the hospital bed, clearly a bit surprised to go with the touched. Turnbull still had no clue what to do with that look. Run away from it, perhaps. It was a very contradictory urge to the reason he was there. "Hey, I'm okay, you know?"

"Of course you are," Turnbull replied, holding onto his polite little duty smile.

"Nah, don't do that." That hand was pointing at him, now. "You didn't come all the way down here just to give me that. Look at me. I'm fine. Okay?"

"Yes, Ray."

They both stopped at that one; it took Turnbull several beats to realize just what was out of place there.

Oh.

"...Detective."

"No, no. Heck no." Ray grinned brighter this time. "No way do you get to go back to 'Detective' now. 'Cause if I gotta go get myself shot a few more times just to get you to call me 'Ray', it's gonna be a really long summer."

This speechlessness really was very annoying on several levels, and following an awkward moment of disbelief before he realized he was being teased, Turnbull cleared his throat and dropped his head. "Yes, Ray."

"Good." Ray settled back again and dragged his blanket up, closing his eyes, still wearing that grin. "Oh, watch out for my sister. I think she's got it in her head to seduce you, and that won't go down well at all. I don't know where she gets these ideas. Maybe it's the uniform."

"I... perhaps. But I am already aware of her-- I suppose it must be fascination? Her fascination." It left a sour sort of taste in his mouth to think about, for any number of reasons. At least a few of which he didn't feel as though he should even be entertaining, especially right now. "Is there anything you need? I'm not aware of whether you're allowed to have food or water, but I would be glad to go and see what might be found."

"Nah." Ray tried to shift, winced, and apparently decided better of it. "If you don't got anywhere to be, you can sit and tell me about your day, but if you gotta go, I get it. You got a ride home, Ren?"

"I'm able to make use of taxi services, though now that it isn't so-- ah, urgent, I'm happy to walk. In any case, I would--" It shouldn't have been quite so awkward to say. "--hm. Prefer to stay, if you-- that is, if it would be no imposition."

"What did I just say, Ren? Did I just say you could sit and talk at me, or are they gettin' creative with the IV?" It was the kind bluster of Ray's, tempered some by the drugs and the pain, but still something Turnbull had come to understand over the past few weeks.

"...Det-- Ray, I highly doubt anyone on staff is so reckless as to-- ah. You did, yes."

"'s what I thought."

Turnbull fidgeted some more with his hat, bouncing on his feet. A moment's further awkward and he finally did settle into a chair nearby.

"Wasn't so hard, was it?"

"No, Ray." A beat passed. "Well. Yes."

Ray chuckled quietly, shaking his head in a careful motion clearly designed not to jostle anything that hurt. "So, what'd you do today? Didn't have to stand on the stoop, right? 'Cause it was pretty hot out."

"No, I didn't. I filed several requisition forms for basic office supplies, as well as organized a number of immigration forms. There were also several visa applications for those seeking work on Canadian soil, and before I had heard of your condition, we received another request for information from Ottawa about the Muldoon case; I was coordinating with the 2-7 in order to consolidate it." As long as he gave it like a report, he didn't have to go into the whole near-panic part that came next.

"Funny coincidence. Thought I'd just got shot by him all over again today." Ray tried to shift again, and again came up short. In the end, he settled with drawing his blanket up close under his chin, complaining absently, "Do they keep it arctic in here for a reason? Geez." And then he continued on, "Wish you woulda been there. You _hear_ that kinda crap coming. I shoulda cleared the hallway before I peeked in the door, but the guy we were after was a small fish. Maybe Ma has a point, maybe I should retire. Rookie mistake."

Turnbull was instantly on his feet again, searching cabinets for spare blankets. "You're a fine police officer--" There was that 'Detective' urge again. "I wish I had been there, also."

"Yeah?"

Turnbull wasn't at all sure of Ray's tone, though it wasn't bad. He busied himself searching through another cabinet, determined not to elucidate on the previous sentence. "Yes, Ray. However, there is only so much you may be reasonably expected to predict. Though... obviously... I worry, I would not... that is to say, I believe you still have quite a lot to offer to law enforcement. It would be a loss to them if you chose to retire."

"Yeah. Just wonder how many more times bullets fly before I end up dead, though." Ray pried his eyes open, clearly with effort. "What're you doing, Renny?"

"Searching for a blanket." The first part of that statement was... worrisome. Particularly given the latest happenings. Turnbull wasn't sure what to say to that, either.

"Oh. It's okay, I think it's just the stuff they gave me. Makes me feel kinda loopy, too." Ray's eyes slid closed again. "I dunno. It was a really rookie mistake. I mean, it seems like the only time I'm on my game is when you're there. And God, you oughta hear Welsh." Ray imitated the man's tones, though not entirely accurately, "'Vecchio, about this habit you have for picking Mounties as defacto partners...' It's like he thinks that I hang out with you just 'cause you wear a red uniform. Can you believe that?"

That was some... very _candid_ conversation. Surprisingly so. Turnbull wondered if the cold and the loopiness was complimented by a frankness that he was rather unaccustomed to. Ray was often willing to speak, but rarely on such a personal level. And yet again, he had to fight with the urge to be anywhere else. He wasn't even able to summon up a reply, and threw himself with renewed vigor into the search for a blanket.

Apparently, Ray didn't need a reply to continue. Or, for that matter, all that much consciousness. "I mean, sure, I guess if I was standin' on the outside I might think that, too, but it's not true and you'd think they'd get that. Huey does it, too. That _concerned_ thing, like I can't tell the difference between Benton Fraser and Renfield Turnbull. Geez. What do they take me for?"

 _Hurt, perhaps,_ was the immediate thought Turnbull didn't voice. He knew well his own tendency to quietly analyze people. He'd always resolved never to turn that tendency on Ray. "Perhaps it's more a reflection of me than you that they believe that, Ray." It was half-absent, spoken without much thought. What kind of hospital didn't stock its rooms with extra blankets? He pulled open a higher one, slipping a hand past a few stacks of urine sample cups to see if there were any in the back.

There weren't. That didn't stop an avalanche of sample cups coming down around his head.

He sighed quietly, eyes shut for a moment before scrambling to pick them up as they scattered across the floor.

He guessed Ray was too out of it to realize. "Dunno why. You're a good cop. I'm the one who didn't clear a stupid hallway before I went lookin' for trouble. Not your state of mind they're spreading rumors about, you know?"

Turnbull clenched his teeth, stacking the cups again. He was once again possessed of an urge to apply various office equipment to the heads of a few select detectives.

Cups stacked on the counter, he opened the last cabinet. Excellent. With a little sound of 'a-ha' more enthusiastic than he felt, he pulled out a blanket and unfolded it, moving to drape it neatly across Ray and tuck it in as best he could.

"Oh, hey, thanks." Ray didn't manage to get his eyes open this time; likely the excitement, mixed with narcotics, had finally settled on him. "Can you do somethin' for me?"

"Of course, Ray." There was no hesitation there; Turnbull really would have gladly jumped to whatever task.

"My keys oughta be in the baggie thingy they stick your stuff in when you get carted off. Can you get the Riv out of impound? I don't trust those creeps the city contracts with to take good care of her."

"I--" Well. Turnbull was not expecting _that_ particular task. "I wouldn't know-- I mean, I do have a license, but I don't believe they would allow me to... to pick up your private vehicle."

"Sure they would. See, I'll call down there and tell 'em to release it to you, and since it ain't part of a case, they will, and then I won't have to worry about their grimy hands all over my paint job." Ray again managed to fight his eyes open, trying for pleading and only looking distinctly half-conscious. "Just take her home with you, okay? 'Cause they ain't gonna let me drive tomorrow anyway."

Turnbull gaped, putting as much concentration as he could muster into making the blanket as straight and smooth as possible.

The task needed done, and while he didn't want to think too long on what he felt about being trusted with it, he wasn't about to refuse. In the end he took in a deep breath, reconsidering his intention to pat Ray on the shoulder for fear of jostling him. He patted the bed beside instead.

"Yes, Ray."

 

 

Turnbull was getting very used to the middle finger by now.

It had been a while. He kept his hands to the wheel and a smile on his face even so; he would not break any traffic laws in this car. He would not break any rules of etiquette in this car. He would not break anything _on_ this car.

Which meant even the skeletal old lady behind him was honking irritatedly at his speed.

He smiled into the rear-view mirror, offering her a jaunty wave.

He got the finger in return.

"Oh, dear." Yes. Getting very used to it.

No amount of rude gesturing would get him to treat the Riviera with anything less than reverence.

Ray -- and he was _Ray_ , now, there would apparently be no more of this 'Detective' business -- had looked entirely _human_ in that hospital bed. Not weak. Just... very much _mortal_ , something of which Turnbull was at once more than aware and newly terrified. There were few more stark ways to bring that home to a man than seeing his friend drugged up and battered and one garment away from death.

There was precisely nothing Turnbull could do about that. He couldn't keep Ray from being battered; he could damn well protect his car, though.

Skeleton-woman finally gave up on traffic laws and passed Renfield, blasting her horn. It distorted and changed pitch as she sped ahead of him.

"Yes, well," he replied with a sweet smile, fully aware that only he could hear. "You can afford to be a sour, impatient old biddy with no regard for the law when you're driving a pile of bolts held together by rust and prayer, ma'am."

There the brief temptation to add that the vehicle he was driving was a far superior one, but then he considered that it might be claiming too much ownership over the Riviera. While Ray had quite kindly (and shockingly) thanked him for the information which had led him to it, Turnbull still didn't feel it his place to declare any sort of proprietary rights to it.

Still, the urge was there.

However Ray may have come by it, letting Turnbull drive it was an exceptional act of trust, he knew. And at this speed, he couldn't help but find time to think on things he would generally prefer to shove away. Such as how it was Turnbull ever found himself in such a position of trust. Like how he was so worried about Ray that he was willing to non-verbally snap at Thatcher without thinking. Like how he knew, now, if given a chance he would've taken that bullet without thinking and probably without realizing Ray was in a vest. Like how he was even driving at all right now, to go along with his recent activities, many of which he had been certain he had successfully forgotten, only to find out that he really _hadn't_.

And maybe a bit about how Francesca seemed to have fixed on him the instant she discovered he hadn't always been a hopeless goof.

He should have never said that. He should have never even thought it.

None of those thoughts were helping, so he did his best to just shove them back out of his head.

Turnbull concentrated on singing 'O Canada' on a loop the rest of the way to his apartment. He must've reparked ten times before he was satisfied that it was most in line with the space and least likely to be clipped or otherwise damaged by passing cars.

 

Despite what Constable Fraser had to say about it (though Turnbull never heard the joke), he liked his apartment. It was a bedsit; he didn't need much. Enough of a kitchen. A place to sleep, a place to paint. A little bathroom with an old, dingy tub. A home with room enough for what little he required and cheap enough to keep saving money. What for, he didn't know and never had. Much of what he had saved had been eaten up in his ill-fated attempt to run for office and the expense of getting home, moving his entire life twice within the space of a disastrous month.

The uniform was a relief to strip out of on a day that had been as hot as this one. He was meticulous despite his churning thoughts. He worried about Ray and he worried about Ray's Riviera. He thought about sleeping in the car just to protect it, but figured that was likely illegal and even more probably ridiculous.

He ran a lukewarm bath and sank into it. Apparently, thought wasn't going to leave him alone.

Scrunching his legs to himself, he held his breath, submerging his head and looking up through the water to the distorted ceiling. Inadvisable, considering the water quality. He'd never cared. Sandy hair waved in the brief current generated by his motion.

He held his breath for so long that he could hear nothing more than his own heart beating and until the world looked dark. An edge of cold that had nothing to do with the actual temperature of the water made him shove up above the surface, bursting that breath out and swiping his hands down his face.

Turnbull didn't waste any more time in the bath; just scrubbed himself clean, got out and resolved to spend some time in the kitchen. It was incredibly late, and it was only going to get later.

At least there, though, he could do something that made him feel just a little less helpless.

 

 

"I promise, Ma, I can walk."

One of the most uncomfortable things in the world was the prospect of riding all the way home from Mercy. A full half-hour, maybe more if traffic was bad, stuck in a station wagon with his family? Ray thought maybe he wasn't drugged enough for this ride.

He'd left behind the obligatory wheelchair at the door of the hospital, and now he was picking his way across the parking lot. Maria had run ahead to pull the car around, but Ray wasn't in any particular mood to wait. It was nine in the morning, he felt awful, most of the painkillers had worn off, and he had to endure a ride back with Frannie, Ma and Maria. The only salvation so far was that Tony had stayed home with the kids.

"It's just like you. Wait? Oh, no, you decide to go all Macho Man--"

"Francesca," their mother warned.

"Shut up, Frannie, and gimme my phone."

"What d'you need your phone for?" she asked, brandishing said phone like a weapon, waving it around.

Ray tried to snatch for it, and the resulting spike of pain nearly landed him on his rear. Unwilling to end up there, he just glared his best glare at her. "None of your business. Gimme my phone!"

"Francesca, give your brother his phone," their mother said, and it was a tone that she had used with them since before their living memory.

Frannie held the phone out, and she gave him the hairy eyeball even as she did. "You're gonna call him, aren't you?"

Ray snatched again for the phone, "That's still none of your business!"

Frannie pulled it back out of his reach. "I'll hand it over if you give me his number."

"Enough!" A swat landed on Frannie's arm, and then Ray's, making both of them fall abashedly quiet. Then Ma took the phone and handed it over to Ray. "There. Call your friend."

"Thanks, Ma," Ray said, spreading his feet to keep his balance easier, and breathing short breaths to keep the pain to a level he could stand. He hated to do it, but he didn't foresee himself surviving the next week or however long it took him to recuperate. Not twenty-four hours a day under that roof. No way, no how. He dialed, prayed under his breath that he wasn't gonna be imposing too badly on Ren, and hit 'send'.

 

The urge to go in to work just to have something else to think about was powerful. It was Turnbull's day off. He didn't really need the money. Nor did he need the general unpleasantness of being in the presence of Inspector Thatcher, but that seemed an improvement over his thousand-mile-an-hour mind.

He felt duty-bound to protect the Riviera, in any case, and that meant either driving it to work or staying home to be nearby. In the interest of driving it as little as possible, the latter had won out, though his beleaguered brain was objecting strongly.

Cooking. There was lots of cooking. There were thoughts about Ray. There was the realization that he had several things he wanted to use up but he lacked a few others to complete the recipes, and there was walking to the corner shop to bring back ingredients. There were thoughts about partnership, police work, and what it meant for someone to become important to him. There were thoughts about getting thoughts to _stop_. There was mixing. There was baking. There were unidentifiable emotions regarding that entirely touched look Ray had given him for showing up at the hospital. Turnbull didn't even know for whom he was cooking. Much of the spread he didn't even _like_.

He'd find someone to gift with it. Other tenants of the apartment building seemed to like when he cooked things. He had a couple of art group friends. Perhaps a homeless shelter. Maybe he could take them to the Vecchio house.

...no. No, he didn't think he should try competing with an Italian-American matriarch's cooking.

The cheesecake came out beautifully. Pity he didn't care for sweets.

He was so on edge when the phone rang that the cheesecake hit the floor. A yellow smear across yellow linoleum, spaced out with shards of white plate. Brilliant.

Still, he found his best duty voice for answering the phone.

"Hello. Turnbull residence, this is he?"

"--yeah, hey, Ren." Ray. Oh, Lord. He sounded like he was trying to keep the conversation private. Probably made no easier by the chaos of Vecchios chattering in the background, but even Renfield knew Francesca had a frightening ability to hear precisely what she wanted to, so Renfield didn't blame Ray in the least. "Listen, I love my family and all but these people are completely nuts and that's just not gonna promote an atmosphere of healing or whatever. I'm sorry to bug you, pal, but, uh. Save me?"

There was quite a long moment where Renfield was scrambling around in his skull again, and in the end, he had to chalk it up to yet another thing he wasn't certain how he felt about. It seemed, of late, that Ray was quite good at provoking those feelings that were undefinable. Even though a few of them were definable. He blinked a few times and went to answer when Ray's voice came down the phone again.

"I know, I know, this is really last minute, but I promise I'll make it up to you."

At least that was enough to unfreeze his brain somewhat. "No, no. That's not necessary, I assure you." A pause. "Where do you want me to pick you up?"

"Uh... hang on, one sec, okay? Okay." Ray took his mouth away from the phone and was addressing the rest of his apparently completely nuts family, "Hey, Ma, you and Marie and Frannie go ahead, okay? I'm just gonna--"

"Don't be silly, Ray, you just got out of the _hospital_." That was Maria's voice.

"Hey, I don't need two mothers," Ray answered, though there wasn't much bite in the tone. If anything, he sounded rather... imploring. "Marie, I promise, I'll be fine."

"Raimundo--"

"Ma, I'm almost forty! I just wanna go out, maybe have breakfast with my partner and then I'll let you know what the plan is. I'm just bruised up. Go home, okay? I promise, I'm okay, I just wanna have some time to... uh... talk about this case and... you know, like a debriefing thing."

Turnbull's grin was irrepressible, but forgivable, considering his ruined cheesecake was the only witness.

Oh. Oh dear, he'd have to-- there would be no time to clean up if Ray was waiting at the hospital in that condition. Perhaps he could just-- damnable phone cord, there's no way it would reach--

There was bickering down the line, and Turnbull found himself exceedingly grateful that Tony didn't appear to be there.

"Oh, that's all right, Ma. I'll wait with Ray, make sure he's safe and comfortable--" That was Francesca.

"-- _no_ , Frannie, I'm _fine_. I'm pretty sure you'll be worse for my health, anyway. As soon as their backs are turned you'll just suffocate me with your purse to get to my partner."

Yes. It was very fortunate Turnbull's cheesecake was the only witness.

"At the very least, Ray, I can cover the breakfast." Turnbull had been cooking since before dawn as well as the night before. "I've quite a spread here."

"See?" Ray directed at his family, as though they could actually hear what Turnbull had said. The sound wavered like Ray was gesturing with the phone. "The man made breakfast! I'll be fine, go home!"

There was resigned muttering in the background, and Turnbull heard the call become clearer as Ray put the receiver back to his mouth, speaking quietly and quickly. "God, I owe you one, two and three now. Okay. I'll wait in the lobby, maybe get myself a cup of coffee. Take your time."

How exactly Turnbull could find it in him to chuckle after the past not-quite-day was beyond him. But he did, dropping his head and completely unable to wipe that grin off of his face. "Yes, Ray."

 

Sliding into the Riv was like cutting all of the strings on a puppet. Ray went from carefully composed 'together' to half-sprawled in the space that single motion, dropping his head back against the passenger side head-rest with a long sigh. Well, a mostly long sigh. His side was still murdering him. It was half-familiar pain, though, and it hadn't taken him long to fall into a stage of ignoring it as much as humanly possible.

"Thank God for guardian Mounties." He rolled his head to the side with a grin. "Thanks."

Ren glanced over quick, with that abashed kinda smile, like he still couldn't quite get being thanked for something. Ray never really got it, but he had at least gotten Ren to accept it on occasion without rattling off fifty reasons why it wasn't necessary. "It's-- you're welcome, Ray. Are you all right?"

"Yeah." Ray sighed out, though it wasn't the bad kind of sigh. "All the good stuff wore off, but since I ain't stuck riding in a station wagon with Ma, Frannie and Marie, I'm happy. Hey, you said you made breakfast? That sounds great. I'm starvin', and I didn't feel like hangin' around eating hospital food. It's like they process all possible good taste out of it."

"That's not entirely inaccurate, given the demands of making meals for an entire hospital, and taking into consideration all necessary infection and sanitation protocols." Ren peered for a long moment at the dash, then put the Riv in drive and pulled away from the curb, after checking the mirrors carefully.

Ray had been long-used to hearing explanations for everything under the sun. But there was a _difference_ when Renfield did it, versus when Benny used to -- the former tended to offer it out, and the latter had used it, occasionally, as a battering ram. It was one of the many differences between the two Mounties.

Ray tended to easily notice those differences. As a rule, he liked them. He wasn't always so sure what that said about him. Maybe he didn't really want to know.

"Yeah, that doesn't surprise me." Ray just turned his head back straight, smiling a little, eyes closed. "So, what'd you make for breakfast?"

Ren sounded oddly uncomfortable with the answer to that question. "...hm. You may have your choice of spinach pizza, rosemary chicken, yeast rolls, chocolate cake, or cheesecake." There was a pause. "Pardon me, the cheesecake was ruined."

Ray opened one eye to look at Ren for a long moment. "Stockin' up for the apocalypse, Ren? You made all that before normal people even wake up? You had to have been awake before _God_. It's not even breakfast food!"

"No, Ray. I suppose I did, yes, Ray."

"...can I ask _why_? Do I even wanna know?"

"You may ask, but probably not."

Ray blinked widely, eyebrows going up before he settled back to his eyes closed. "O _kay_. I'm still askin'."

"I enjoy being useful, Ray."

"You enjoy being useful."

"Yes."

"That's why you made enough food for a football team at an hour when some people are still out drinking."

"Well, yes, Ray."

"You expectin' company?" Ray asked before he even thought better of it. "Like a girlfriend? Or a guy friend?" Of course, the second he said it, he winced. _Shit._ "You know, ignore that. That's a real ignorant question; it's none of my business. It all sounds pretty good to me right now, so I'll just chalk this one up to 'Ren's a really nice guy and made good food and rescued me from my family, so be grateful.'"

The poor guy looked like a really awkward moose in headlights for a moment before it settled to something more blank. "--neither. No company. No-- no girlfriend--" Ren cleared his throat, turning red, voice a little tighter at the next part. "No guy friend. Hm. I simply... create to occupy my mind. Perhaps I should have... should have painted instead, however, cooking seems more useful and appears to have been fortuitous."

Ray blinked once or twice, then picked his head up properly to look out the windshield. Just thinking for a long moment. It was a half-swirl of chaotic thought, before he settled on one thing in the mess and went with it. "Yesterday spooked you pretty bad, huh?" He didn't look over to ask that question, and kept his voice level and on the soft side. Really, Ray was dead touched that Ren would have bothered to come all the way to Mercy to visit, let alone take care of the Riv. He supposed they oughta at least talk about it some. "Y'know, I think I'll have a note put into my file for them to call you. I mean, in case something happens. That way you don't gotta play phone tag or whatever to find stuff out."

Ren didn't answer the first part directly. Not a huge surprise. "I would be... honored if you did, Ray. There is a certain disconcerting _glee_ to the rumor mill at the precinct. Thank you. I would offer you the same, however, the possibility of a freak papercut is hardly something for which they would need to call you." There was a bit of dark humor in the tone.

"Up to you, pal." Ray looked out the window. They were practically crawling, speed wise, but he didn't feel any particular need to urge Ren to speed up. He just cast about for another way to address the topic without pushing to the point where he got the stiff-necked Mountie facade in return. "If somethin' happened outside of the consulate, though, I'd wanna know. In case I had heads to kick in, or..."

Or what? Ray wasn't quite sure. He didn't particularly want to consider anything happening to Ren anywhere, inside or outside of the consulate. Even considering that they worked cases together lately, and the man was clearly better in the field than he was, usually, playing doorman or secretary.

Ren looked briefly surprised; something a little spooked, a little touched. "I... I suppose I will. In that case. I cannot-- cannot imagine a situation that might call for the, ah-- kicking of _heads_ , however, I'm... quite... that is to say... Hm." Ren repositioned himself in the seat like he could sit even more straight-backed and proper. "Thank you." It was quieter. Falling more toward the side of touched than spooked.

Ray took it as a victory and went to cross his arms, though he quickly rethought that action. "You're welcome." A beat. "So, you got chocolate cake, huh? I could go for some of that."

 

The cheesecake was still on the kitchen floor, but after four floors of stairs with a wounded detective, Turnbull didn't think it was the highest priority. No, that would be getting Ray comfortable again, which meant sitting him on the bed, after having helped him up the last two flights.

It must have taken some amount of pride-swallowing for Ray to ask for the help, but by the time he had made it so far as the second floor, he was pale and having a hard time getting enough air to continue without constant breaks. It was worrisome; Turnbull knew that bruised ribs weren't particularly dangerous, but it still bothered him quite a bit to see Ray struggling like that.

Once Ray was sitting, though, his color slowly improved. It still took him a tense minute or so, trying to draw in enough air, but finally he joked, tightly, "Well, that was easy. Now I'm ready for the Boston Marathon."

" _Ray_." It was as much a statement as it was a gentle sigh, worry still apparent, though Turnbull was relieved Ray could at least joke about it. "I'm terribly sorry that I didn't consider the stairs before agreeing to let you stay. I would have been happy to carry you. Please excuse the state of the apartment."

Ray flicked a look up, and then a grin crossed his face, both eyebrows up. It was a decidedly mirthful look. "You woulda _carried_ me? Up four flights of stairs? Careful, Renny; you keep up this chivalry thing and I might have to swoon."

The number of times that man had succeeded in making Turnbull feel as though there were a large, very high-wattage spotlight shining on him might've been enough to make it into a record book. He opened his mouth, and yet again couldn't find a single thing to say. "I--" He closed his mouth and then just shook his head, turning around to head back into the kitchen to clean up the cheesecake. Perhaps he could put on some tea-- wait, Ray preferred coffee, but since he didn't keep any...

"Need a hand?" Ray asked after. "Dunno if I can do any bending or anything, but I can wash dishes or somethin'."

Turnbull was still boggling over the 'swoon' when that drifted back. He took up a plastic dustpan and a handheld broom and tried his best not to cut himself on the plate. His best was not helped by said boggling.

Finally, the offer registered. He was a little horrified with the suggestion. "Please, Ray, don't exert yourself," he called back as he caked his broom with yellow muck. "I'm afraid I lack a number of normal amenities for entertainment, but you mustn't concern yourself with anything other than healing."

"You sound like my mother. Only politer. And she'd probably stick me on dishes anyway, so I guess this is a step up. You sure?"

"Yes, Ray." Turnbull was picking up tiny pieces of plate. He did manage to nick himself a couple of times, but it was surface. Merely annoying. He trashed the mess and wiped the floor with a wet rag. Not thinking about swooning. Definitely not.

"How do you live in this thing, anyway? I mean, I knew it was _small_ but I guess you don't really know small 'til you're sitting in it."

"I don't want for much, Ray."

"'Cept a television or something." Ray didn't sound like he was particularly put out by the lack of said television, however. His voice was moving. Apparently, sitting still in a state of recovery wasn't on his agenda today. The next time he spoke, Turnbull knew it was from next to the window. "Maybe we can go for a drive."

The idea of handling those stairs again anytime soon was enough to make Turnbull want to break out into a cold sweat. On the other hand, it as rapidly sinking into his head that there were very few things with which he could entertain Ray with here. He sincerely doubted the man wanted to sit and watch him cook, paint or clean. He didn't even have any games, as he so rarely entertained company.

"I mean, yeah, I'm sore. But since you won't let me do dishes or something, maybe we can go out." Now he was in the kitchen, moving gingerly, but seeming quite determined not to simply _stay still_. Ray glanced around, taking note and all of a sudden, Turnbull felt like scrubbing the _walls_. "My treat? Anywhere you want."

"Please be careful of the damp floor, Ray." Turnbull would probably scrub _himself_ if Ray fell after all of this.

He suddenly understood what it was Mrs. Vecchio meant when she said the fidgeting made her nervous. Ray flicked a glance back to him briefly, eyebrows up.

"I... that is to say... I don't want--" Turnbull sighed, rinsing his hands. He could... he could refrigerate what he'd made. It would keep. He shut off the water and steeled all his bloody-mindedness for the next part, shoving his embarrassment behind it, too. "If you would consent to me carrying you down the stairs, yes, Ray." He felt immediately, utterly foolish for saying it, but worry trumped foolishness.

Ray stared back for quite a long moment; in fact, Turnbull didn't even need to turn around to know this. He _felt_ it. The weight in that long silence. It was nearly unbearable.

"Carry... me. Down the stairs."

"...yes, Ray."

"Carry me. Down the stairs."

Was there a way for the human face to spontaneously combust? He thought it must be impossible, but given this particular moment, he was willing to reconsider the possibility.

"Uh... okay. If you think you can do it without me screamin'." Ray's voice contained his half-shrug just as certainly as his shoulders must have. Casual and easy. "Or fainting. I mean, sure, I threatened to swoon, but I don't think you actually want me to do that."

Ah. Yes, well, he really should have taken into account that Ray might accept that particular offer. Turnbull's own stupidity. Hm.

As to whether he could do it without making Ray--

He wasn't going to finish that internal sentence. He just wasn't. Turnbull was not usually given to self-censoring; in general it wasn't necessary. In fact, he wasn't usually given to internal innuendo, even accidental.

That internally said, if he must, he would absolutely haul Ray damsel-style down the stairs riding the wave of his own bloody-mindedness. If only he could figure out how to do so without making Ray--

Indeed.

He still didn't turn from the sink. "I will make a concerted effort, in any case. Alternatively, perhaps I could prepare some kind of winch and harness to be lowered from the fire escape..." It _was_ a joke, regardless of the serious tone. Anything to call attention away from the particular fuchsia shade of his own face.

"Whatever's easier," Ray said. Now, he was leaning against the counter on his hands slightly, and Turnbull saw his grin in his peripheral vision. "Geez, Ren. You get any more red, I'll hang you on a wire. Make you a stoplight. How 'bout this: I'll walk down the stairs, and if you think I'm gonna fall down, you can sweep me up like the red-faced knight you are. Okay?"

The bright urge to facepalm was channeled into holding on to the kitchen counter. He breathed it out slowly. Breathed out that image, too. Lord, the silliness of it. "That... so long as you're careful, that would be an acceptable compromise, yes, Ray."

"Thought so. No good if both of us faint. Nobody should be able to have blood move that fast and stay standing, pal."

Turnbull cleared his throat, failing to will that blush away. He carefully set aside the food he'd made -- the risk of broken cookware _exceedingly_ high in that moment -- before turning to gesture doorman-style at the door.


	3. Chapter 3

The trip down the stairs was mercifully without damsel-incident. That wasn't to say it was quick. It was slower going than the trip up, even if _down_ should really be easier; it probably had a lot to do with Turnbull's fussing. It must've been every three stairs that he felt the need to ask after Ray. He imagined that probably grew irritating.

"Are you all right, Ray?"

"Yeah, Ren. Don't mind me, just crippled."

 

"Are you certain you're quite all right?"

"I'm fine. Gimme a sec."

 

"Perhaps we should stop."

"Nah. I'm not fainting yet."

 

"I would be happy to attempt to carry you--"

"Geez, Ren, you'd think I'd just been shot or somethin'."

 

"Are you certain you wouldn't like me to carry you the rest--?"

"Man, it's kinda funny how even beat up like this my sister would probably kill to be me right now."

 

Finally, mercifully -- or not, as this meant again driving the Riviera and all of the inherent potential for disaster -- they were settled in the car. Thus far, there had been no real attempts to figure out _where_ they were going. Which meant that the entire first several minutes of sitting in the car was in relative silence, with one fidgeting Mountie and one out-of-breath detective.

It was Ray who broke the silence, sprawled again in the passenger's seat with his eyes closed, still gradually catching his breath. His face was tight, but his tone was calm and good-natured despite it. "So, where you wanna go?"

"I'm not certain, Ray. I don't particularly have anywhere I want to be, at the moment." The urge to continue fussing was quite difficult to ignore. Instead, Turnbull whipped out his handkerchief and polished off the already-smooth steering wheel.

"Me either. 'Cept, not at home." Ray leaned his head against the window. The car was well-baked in the heat of the day, which made this even less comfortable. "How 'bout this... you drive, and if you see somethin' you wanna stop and do, we stop and do it."

Oh, dear. This really was rapidly turning into a disaster. "I-- yes, Ray."

"I mean it, Renny. 'Cause if you spend the next several hours drivin' and getting all twisted up tryin' to think about what _I_ might wanna do, I'm gonna drive--"

Turnbull surprised himself by interrupting, aghast, "--but your _injuries_ \--"

"--and I'm gonna stuff you in the trunk, too. Got me?"

It was strange how tempting a ride in the trunk was at this moment, Ray's injuries aside. At least then the matter was beyond his control. Turnbull was reasonably ashamed at that thought, and after a moment's half-freeze, half-hanging on the rest of his interruption, he sighed. "Yes, Ray."

"Uh-huh." It was entirely smug. "Thought so."

Turnbull actually knew quite a bit of the city. He just tended to know it by bus route, not direct, and it was quite true that he had no specific place in mind. His polishing had moved on to the dash, randomly. Meandering. He stopped when he found himself leaning to polish down the passenger side dash. He flicked the handkerchief back and pocketed it.

There was a long moment where he stared at the steering wheel as though considering very carefully. "...ah, how... how spacious is your trunk, Ray?"

Turnbull was pleasantly surprised to find that got a laugh, though he was instantly guilty for the wince that went with it.

He shook his head a little as he slipped the key in and started the vehicle. This was a bad idea. A terribly bad idea. And he found he couldn't argue.

"Okay, good. It's the one on the right that makes it go," Ray said, letting his head fall back to the window, eyes closed. He was still smiling when he did.

 

It had been quite a long time since he had driven to any degree beyond short trips in the consulate's vehicle, but after awhile, he found it came back more naturally than he might have liked it to. But it was certainly better than thinking too much about the myriad of things he wasn't in any rush whatsoever to work over in his head, at least, and there was something soothing about the sound of the tires on the freeway.

In fact, Turnbull had managed a state of something not unlike 'zen' all the way up until he realized that Ray was not merely resting with his eyes closed and his seat back slightly, but that he was actually asleep.

That, of course, kicked off a number more thoughts he didn't want to have. It was unfathomable, really, that this man not only handed him the keys to the Riviera, a car he loved passionately, but that he trusted Turnbull enough to _sleep_ during the ride. Turnbull was still boggled by this.

It wasn't that Ray hadn't put some measure of trust in him lately, specifically when it came to tracking down subjects and suspects on those days they rode together. That took a great deal of faith, as a situation could go badly at any given point, but Turnbull had some measure of faith in his training and experience. He wasn't leading those ventures, merely following Ray's lead, and his training and reflexes were still good. At least, in terms of apprehension and, occasionally, some degree of interrogation. He could still run, he could still take someone down and he was still quick with the handcuffs. It required very little thought, or so he'd believed. The reward was the rush of doing well at something he had half-forgotten he was good at while he was busy dodging Thatcher's hammer every day; of providing something _useful_ , at least.

It wasn't that Ray hadn't trusted him of late professionally, it was that Ray was trusting him now _personally_. Leaned back in his seat, under the summer sun, eyes closed, he snored quietly away as though he were somehow perfectly _safe_ letting this man he barely knew drive his prized automobile.

It made driving some more difficult. Suddenly, Turnbull was quite aware, all over again, of the weight of this trust.

He hadn't had any particular destination in mind, initially, though after he had wandered aimlessly for a half-hour, he'd found himself on the interstate. After that, he found himself heading for the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore, as it was one of the few destinations he knew that had a fair amount of nature. He'd been there one Saturday with his art group, and remembered enough of the route to find his way. Of course, this lead to a number of anxieties about how Ray would take such a _long_ venture, not only outside of Chicago but outside of Illinois. If he had the heart to do it, he would have woken Ray up and prepared for a rant. But he didn't. The man looked peaceful. Tired, yes. But peaceful.

Peace suited Ray.

That was another thought he never wanted to have, and Turnbull cast his eyes to the road, trying not to let the pass of lines hypnotize him.

 

Quite in defiance of Ray's offer, Turnbull was determined to pay for their meal. He knew the odds of Ray sleeping through the matter were slim. It would take strategy. Strategy, careful quiet, and a firm, close eye on the Riviera. He didn't want to leave Ray vulnerable and asleep.

There was no way he was consuming fast food. Ever. It would not happen, and he would not subject poor Ray to such a thing, either. He wished he'd thought to actually pack food he'd made. It really was the only way to ensure the food was clean...

It didn't matter. Needs must.

He had a reasonable idea of what Ray liked, considering the number of dinners shared. It wouldn't be difficult to pick something.

It was a strange and new kind of awkward, sitting in silence in a car next to a sleeping man, plotting to ambush him with food. Turnbull suppressed a sigh, rubbing his forehead. No. No, in the end, Turnbull wasn't going to try and steal liberties, even if the liberty was buying the man the gift of a meal.

"Ray," he whispered, feeling quite as though he were dumping a bag of kittens into Lake Michigan.

No response.

One really couldn't wake a man in half-measures, Turnbull knew. "Ray," he repeated, a hair louder.

"Hn," came the most assuredly asleep response.

Turnbull shut his eyes and sighed. He was dreading said bag of soaked kittens being exceedingly irritated at the locale as well as the rude awakening.

Carefully, he put a gentle hand to Ray's arm, absolutely refusing to shake it. It was the softest pat. Barely there. "Ray."

Ray seemed to sniff in mostly-unconscious surprise. "...not now, Ma."

Ah. Yes. Hm. "Ray?"

"--I'm up." There was a multitude of evidence to the contrary, but Ray squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, shifting uncomfortably and bringing a hand to his own face.

Turnbull stole back that hand from Ray's arm like he'd been caught stealing. "We're, ah. Here, Ray. After a fashion." He was parked aimlessly on the side of the street, indecision in regard to food keeping him from selecting a particular destination. It was only for Ray, really, he worried about it. Turnbull wasn't hungry. He was entirely too nervous of the amount of trust in his lap to be hungry.

"Where's here?"

"On the side of the road, at the moment."

Ray finally managed to get his eyes open, and then winced away from the summer light, even though it was no longer directly shining on him. "How long I been asleep?"

"Approximately two hours."

"Wow." Ray rubbed over his eyes, then opened them again. Still looking decidedly sleepy. "Wisconsin or Indiana?"

Turnbull winced a little, though he mostly kept it off of his face. "Indiana. I had been uncertain as to where to go in the city, and when I found myself on Interstate 90, I debated on possible exits before it became apparent I had driven quite a distance, and by that time, I thought that it would be rude to wake you. So, we are in Indiana, currently quite close to the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore. I'm sorry."

"--what?" Ray picked himself up with another wince. "Are you apologizing?"

"Yes, Ray." In fact, Turnbull was _hoping_ at this point for some sort of lecture, because truth be known, he felt entirely silly for having driven a full hour outside of Chicago simply because he had nowhere closer and perhaps more entertaining to go. He didn't imagine that Ray would have cared too much for the idea of roaming around a national park, and the more he thought about it, the worse the idea seemed. It was almost selfish, the idea of transposing his own desire to visit somewhere quiet and comparatively peaceful onto Ray Vecchio. Even accounting for Ray's prior words about going wherever he wanted to go.

"Okay. We're gonna have a talk." Ray turned some in the seat, and even though he was wincing as he did it, his expression was dead serious. "Listen: I like you. This might come as a shock, Ren, but I _like you_. I like hangin' out with you. I like being around someone who doesn't treat me like a walkin' fucking _time-bomb_. I like hangin' out with a guy who isn't waiting for me to explode and go postal. I like havin' a partner who I don't gotta worry about trying to psychoanalyze me while I'm on the road tryin' to do my job. I like you. I like hangin' out with you. I like it when you -- God forbid -- relax enough to smile. So, how 'bout I cut you a deal: You stop puttin' me up on a pedestal, and I'll hang out at the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore today with you, and then we'll go from there."

He leaned forward slightly, even though it made his eyes narrow briefly in pain. "So. We gotta deal?"

Turnbull would've answered quicker if, through that, he'd remembered to _breathe_. It wasn't his strong suit.

"--ped-- estal." It was breathed out, and he blinked rapidly, rerunning those words in perfect clarity and order in his brain a second time before he could understand. Gaping.

Well. He... hadn't been expecting that.

 _He likes it when--_

Turnbull cleared his throat and tilted his head in a brief crack of his neck.

"...understood, Ray." Well, that was hardly adequate. Turnbull wasn't sure anything could be. "That is to say-- your company is very much enjoyed, I cannot say I had ever thought of you as a 'walking f--' hm. 'Walking timebomb', there is most certainly no psychoanalyzation, and while I had not-- not-- indeed there were never meant to be any pedestals involved, I simply wanted to take no li--" Give it up. "Hm. That is to say, yes, Ray. We have a deal."

Ray's expression softened instantly, and he smiled a half-smile then, eyebrows up a little. "Now that we got that outta the way, how 'bout you track us down some food? I'm still starved, you're probably starved, the car probably needs gas. My treat, no more of this apology stuff. Then we can go hang around the park."

 

In truth, Turnbull wasn't starved. He ate more for Ray's benefit; honestly, there was something about this whole situation that kept him bizarrely on edge.

It wasn't without its upsides, however.

Not least of which was that Ray seemed to get some kind of genuine enjoyment out of it, sore though he was. Turnbull had noted that tendency before; some strange pleasure taken from when Turnbull gave over and allowed Ray to do or pay or otherwise _provide_ in a situation. He honestly didn't understand it. It certainly wasn't within his normal disposition to accept. Turnbull could only think himself a burden when it happened, and yet, Ray continued to insist. There was nothing to indicate that he expected anything, or wanted anything, except simply to be around and take care of things.

Currently, he had taken up taking care of things by laboriously and carefully climbing up onto the hood of the Riv with a blanket out of the trunk to lay in the dappled sunlight under one of the very few trees in the otherwise sand-blasted parking lot. Turnbull couldn't imagine it was terribly comfortable, particularly given the heat of the day and the heat of the engine under the hood, but he wasn't even remotely sure how to bring it up. It seemed, again, like taking liberties -- if the man wanted to nap draped on his car, who was he to complain?

Ray simply made himself a seat, taking the folded blanket as a cushion of sorts, and rested back against the windshield with a slow, drawn sigh. "Yeah... that's good."

Turnbull had no idea who Ray was addressing. Perhaps the universe in general. It wouldn't have been the first time.

"Okay, I'm good. Don't figure I'm probably all that much use for hikin' or whatever, so I'll rest here, and you go ahead if you wanna."

There was an immediate urge to ask fifty times if Ray was certain of that, but then he thought better of it. It would likely result in _shooing_. Then he had to consider that he had just, in all likelihood _rightly_ , predicted how Ray would respond to that. "Would you like one of the water bottles?"

"Huh?" Ray was already in the process, apparently, of falling back to sleep. "Sure, I guess."

Turnbull took a bottle from the seat and twisted it most of the way open, offering it over. Eyes shut, Ray missed the first time and Turnbull had to catch his hand and press the bottle into it.

"Thanks."

"You're quite welcome, Ray." A beat passed during which Turnbull was tempted again to ask. He put it down. "Please be careful, Ray."

"Relax. No deranged glacier salesmen here. Worst that happens is I slide off this thing, and she loves me too much to throw me off."

Turnbull dropped his head, smiling at that quite in the face of his own worry to the contrary. "Yes, Ray."

"Uh-huh." It was sleepy and smug at the same time. Turnbull didn't examine what he felt about that.

 

Even in jeans, Turnbull wore his RCMP high browns. It was a comfort thing. An identity thing. A reminder of what he was when there were no other outward markings. And very likely something that would drive Inspector Thatcher to disapproval; Turnbull wasn't without his little rebellions.

That was all very high-minded and symbolic up until the point he realized it was really annoying to walk in sand in those boots. The black t-shirt had been quite the poor idea, as well, though he had to give himself the pass that he had no idea how his day would unfold when he put it on.

There were people about. He nodded politely to everyone he passed, his duty smile firmly in place.

Ray sleeping back there made him nervous. There was something about leaving him alone that screamed _wrong_ ; a man that vulnerable should be watched over. Injured and dozing.

A mother and her child passed him hand in hand; the little girl offered Turnbull a wave.

...it wasn't like this place was crawling with threats. Still. Turnbull didn't wander far, even if he did itch to move. Work, maybe. Or clean. Cook. Something. His mind wasn't the safest place to occupy at the immediate moment, he found. The sun on his shoulders and a trek through hilly sand provided plenty of physical exertion, but not much in the way of accomplishment.

It was the little girl that provided him inspiration for what he would do next, though the idea struck him several minutes after she'd passed.

She'd waved with a handful of beach grass.

It was an absolute flight of fancy, but then, so was the day; he ran with it. Straying a little off the beaten path, he carefully selected a few longish strands of thick beach grass.

Straightening them in his hand, he made his way back toward the Riv, selecting a small patch of sand not far from the parking lot - close enough to keep a reasonable eye on Ray, far enough not to seem like he was hovering - to settle in and begin work.

It was a completely, childishly, goofily random a thing to do, but it killed some time. When he was done, he had a meticulously woven tied ring of beach grass. Pristine, so far as anything made of plantlife could be. Pretty. Alternating colors; some selected more sun-beaten than others, the washed out colors patterned with the more lively green. They would all dry to the same color, but in the meantime, they made for a visually appealing pattern.

He stood up to knock the sand off of himself and stepped lightly toward the Riv, aiming not to wake Ray if he was still asleep.

There was quite a lot of presumption in his thought to tie it to the rear-view mirror. Turnbull didn't even know if Ray could stand things dangling from his mirror, much less that he'd want something so silly. Regardless, he went to open the door as quietly as he could, all the while telling himself that if Ray didn't like it, he was sure to complain. Loudly.

"Good hike?" Ray asked, before his hand was even on the door handle.

Turnbull straightened and tried not to feel too much like a thief. Though, admittedly, he wasn't stealing anything. That particular feeling as though he were was, therefore, quite an annoyance. "Yes, Ray. Brief and sandy though it was."

"Yeah?" Ray's voice was sleepy. How he had guessed who it was without opening his eyes was a mystery.

"Yes. It's quite a nice park; your government has done a fine job maintaining it." Turnbull fiddled with his woven beach grass and kept trying to kick away the sensation of having been caught red-handed at something. "Your nap?"

"In and out. Side hurts. Heard your boots, decided to be in."

Turnbull raised an eyebrow and looked down at said boots for a long moment, then back up again. "I was unaware they were distinctive."

"Yeah, they are. Well, kinda. How you walk in 'em is." Ray finally opened his eyes, though only as much as necessary, and looked over with a mild grin. "So, you wanna hang out here awhile longer, or you got a bug to go do somethin' else?"

"Whatever you--"

"Noooooo..."

Turnbull closed his eyes for a moment in exasperation, but he couldn't, again, quite chew down the grin and he dropped his head briefly. This was... he didn't know what this was. "--that is to say, I would gladly entertain suggestions."

"Better." Ray grinned brightly back, a sudden flash of it. "'Cept, I don't got any suggestions."

It was very hard _not_ to smile back at that look. Even accounting for embarrassment, even accounting for the utter blankness that took over whenever he tried to think about where they could go next, and for thoughts he didn't want to have of things hanging on rearview mirrors; even accounting for many, many things that should have made it impossible, Turnbull was smiling back. "It's too early for dinner. I'm afraid I have no particular ideas in mind." While he still had some nerve, he set the woven grass next to Ray on the hood of the Riv.

Ray picked it up, eyebrows going up. "Wow. You did this?"

Ah. There was the rush of familiar red. He felt like he had been branded with a permanent blush. "Yes, Ray."

"Pretty," Ray answered, looking over it and running a thumb down the weave.

Turnbull cleared his throat quietly. "Hm. Thank you. It's, ah. Yours, in any case."

"Yeah?" That tone was entirely too touched for Turnbull's sanity.

"Yes, Ray," he repeated. "I had thought... thought to hang it in the rear-view mirror, though-- though-- I was uncertain as to whether-- hm. Yes, Ray."

The answer was quite a long moment in coming, but then Ray said, on the quiet side, "Sure. I mean, long as you don't think that means you can hang some fuzzy dice up there, too, yeah. Go for it."

It was a bit of a surprise, even though that had been his intention. The pause vaguely worried him, though it seemed far more a thoughtful pause than an uncertain one.

Then Ray looked back over, holding the weave up. "Hey, you think you can teach me how to do this?"

What? It took a long several moments for Turnbull to realize that he hadn't actually asked that out loud, and then he finally did, albeit keeping as much disbelief out of his tone as possible. The idea of Ray Vecchio, of all people, wanting to learn _children's crafts_ was quite far outside of his expectations. "Pardon?"

"I figure it like this," Ray said, laying the weaving over one leg, "We don't know what we wanna do, I don't wanna go back home, your place doesn't have much to do, and it's pretty nice out here. So, can you teach me how to make one of those or not?"

Turnbull blinked rapidly a few times, his smile stealing right back across his face. It seemed a bizarre request, but once he'd gathered his brain, Turnbull was grateful to give something. It sounded an entirely lovely prospect. He clasped his hands at front, tugging on his thumb with his fingers. "I would be... I mean, yes, Ray. I would be delighted to teach you." Still, he worried about Ray trudging through all that sand. "I-- ah, shall I... Hm. Please stay here, Ray, I will bring back some grass."

 

Turnbull's walk that time around had quite a bit more purpose and confidence to it. It probably helped that he was scouting for something specific, giving him no time to think intently on anything more confusing. He'd chosen blades of grass for sturdiness, thickness, shape, and length. He'd brought back quite a bundle.

He'd initially anchored it around his bootlace for weaving; something simple and on the fly. It didn't really do for teaching, and there was no way to comfortably do it on the car; in the end he'd seen Ray off the Riv, settled that blanket in the sand just off the parking lot (Lord, did he ever resist the urge to fuss over), stuck a thick stick deep into the sand and surrounded it by a few small rocks. It would be sturdy enough to work from, keep the strands taut, and hopefully not lean too much.

He had shown Ray a very basic pattern; a left to right weave, over and under, before starting again.

Idle observations were thrown off as best he could, an exercise that he found increasingly, annoyingly, more difficult as the day wore on. He observed that Ray couldn't possibly be very comfortable like this, with bruised ribs; he was sitting very straight. That people didn't seem to think that it was overly odd for two grown men to be sitting in the sand making summer camp crafts. That his black t-shirt was an exceptionally bad idea indeed. That Ray had nice hands, especially when they were doing something sort of delicate.

He was especially going to throw off that last one.

"...oh. So that's how you make that edge all looped like that."

"Yes, Ray. You're doing very well."

"Yeah?" Ray seemed pleased with that. It was almost unnerving. "Ain't as neat as yours, but hey."

"It's a better first effort than mine was, at the time."

"And you were what, six? Seven?"

"...seven."

"Right, so stop tryin' to make me feel better about it." Ray's grin was decidedly tongue-in-cheek, but he was still weaving. The sunlight didn't seem to bother him, even dressed in an off-white dress shirt over a white undershirt. Though, he had rolled the sleeves up to halfway up his forearms. "Where'd you learn this?"

Turnbull looked back down again at the weaving. "My sister taught me."

"A sister? Got any other siblings?" Even not looking, he could hear Ray grinning wider. How was that even _possible_? "And they anywhere near as annoying as mine?"

"I have two older brothers." Turnbull pressed his lips together around a brief grin. "...not... not annoying. Well. I imagine they could be. There is a rather large age gap, so I wouldn't know in the same sense."

"Oh, yeah? How large is 'rather large'?"

"My sister was fourteen when I was born. My brothers were seventeen."

"Okay, so that is large. Huh."

"I was something of a surprise."

"Say that's a pretty good one, as surprises go. You ever miss 'em?" One sentence melded seamlessly from the other, giving Turnbull no time to boggle over the first before he was answering the second.

"My sister, often." Turnbull's smile shrank, and he made a point of examining the weave very closely. "It really is very good for a first try, Ray," he reiterated.

"It's okay. I feel like a hippie." Ray chuckled, then apparently thought better of it. "Next thing you know, I'm gonna be wearin' tie-dye or somethin'. You get to see her whenever you went back to Toronto?"

"Yes, Ray." There must have been something else to talk about. Casting about, Turnbull landed on something. "You're the oldest, then, of the Vecchio siblings?"

"Uh, yeah." Ray nodded, weaving away, concentrating on the strands of grass. "Had an older brother, but he died when I was four. Marie and Frannie don't remember him, and I barely do. 'Course, my parents kept it all kinda... well, not hushed, y'know, but... not something to worry us over. Which is really messed up in retrospect, but I guess I can see their point. So, it was Nicholas, me, Maria and Francesca."

"I'm sorry for your family's loss." Turnbull felt it was very like him to have landed on precisely the wrong thing to ask. The urge to 'Detective' was powerful. "--Ray."

"It's okay." Ray half-shrugged, suddenly seeming a little more awkward now. "It was a long time ago." He gestured to the weaving, which was getting quite long now. "How much longer should this go?"

Turnbull's frown twitched a bit; he itched to take back having asked. Nothing to be done for it now. "...as long as you like, really, so long as you have enough to tie off. However, if you would like to tie it off now, you will need to gather these strands into two sections--" He gestured close to the weave, brushing over it. "--and if you would like to make a ring of it, tie it to the other end. Tie it to itself tightly, if you'd rather leave it open."

"Yeah, okay. I can do that."

"Incidentally, I also know enough about cold process dying that should tie-dye truly interest you, it is an art I could also teach." It was an attempt at a small joke; Turnbull was quite desperate to bring back any hint of a grin to Ray's face. He couldn't help but think it was entirely crass once he'd said it, though.

Ray never looked up as he got to tying, but his mouth twitched in what looked like a smirk, then became decidedly serious again. "Only if you wear it with me, Renny."

"I-- you mean-- tie-dye?" Well, obviously that was what Ray was getting at, but the mental image of himself in tie-dye was enough to make him stare off for quite a long moment.

No, he couldn't quite hang onto that image without a large sign blinking in his head going 'ABSURD-ABSURD-ABSURD.'

"Yeah, why not?" Ray finished tying the weave off, then undid it from the stick so he could finish it off. And once he was done, he held it up to his forehead like a headband. Still serious. "Whaddya think? Hippie enough?"

Turnbull did his very best to hold onto a straight face, and quite nearly succeeded. Until Ray broke into the widest, cheesiest grin that he had ever seen on the man.

It seemed somehow horribly _wrong_ to laugh right now, but that was exactly what happened.

Ray was both laughing and swearing, that headband held up for only an instant longer under what was clearly pain.

Turnbull was laughing and fussing, so they made a nice matching set. " _Ray_ , you mustn't--" Oh dear, that was a giggle. "--exert yourself--"

"--oh, man, the _look_ on your face-- _holy_ \--"

"The look on _mine_? Do you realize I thought for an instant you must be _serious_ \--?" Turnbull rocked forward under a laugh, half-hiding his face behind one hand.

"Yeah, that's why it was a priceless look!"

"You really should stop--" Oh, God. Turnbull had to stop laughing or he thought Ray might hurt himself. He tightened the hand over his mouth in a concerted effort to stop laughing, if only by example.

"--picturing a whole new Mountie uniform, rainbow, peace sign buttons, sandals, K-9 units goin' nuts for the smell comin' off it--"

"Crossed pistols no more; crossed joints, on the other hand..." So much for trying to stop laughing. Turnbull couldn't quite resist throwing that in, and the howl of both laughter and pain that came from Ray made it even more impossible.

"Oh, God! Okay, I'm dyin' here." Ray had doubled over, trying to brace his ribs without putting too much pressure on them, and after a few more moments with his eyes squeezed shut tight, he managed to gasp in a few short breaths. He was grinning, though, if tightly. "See, now, what you gotta do is picture Thatcher in that getup. Every time she gives you crap, just picture that."

"I believe she would combust from the mere mental suggestion." That was not at all a bad image - for that matter, it seemed like the uniform to suit a particular old acquaintance had he made it through Depot - and neither was it helping with the state of Turnbull's sides. He was hugging himself, arms crossed tight. Head fallen forward just to laugh. Turnbull untucked a hand to wipe his face, leaving it pressed to his own cheek. "You-- you may injure us both if you keep-- keep us laughing." It was spaced out with poorly contained giggles. "Are-- are you all right, Ray?"

"Yeah." Well, Ray was clearly sore, but his spirits seemed high. He was still smiling as he managed to unpry a hand from one side to gesture. "You oughta do that more often."

"Picture Inspector Thatcher in full peacenik regalia?" Turnbull asked, catching his breath.

Ray gestured again; a relaxed, casual motion, even wound protectively around his wounded ribs. "No, laugh. It's nice."

Well. How does one respond to that? Turnbull blinked a few times, not entirely -- well, not _remotely_ \-- sure how to answer. That was rapidly approaching 'story of his life' status. "Ah... thank you."

"No problem." Ray tossed his weaving over, then picked up the one Turnbull had made earlier, wincing again as he leaned back enough to put it into his pocket. "So, we did some hippie stuff, and we had lunch, and we got to hang out at the park. What's next?"

 

There really wasn't a great deal to be done, aside perhaps wait for dinner. Ray seemed just as resolute about avoiding his family well into the early evening as he had been in the morning. It wasn't entirely surprising -- a chaos of Vecchios being a chaos -- but it still made for some difficulty in planning. Which was to say, they didn't have one.

It felt strange for Turnbull to have both his friend and his friend's car in his custody of sorts, but it felt somewhat less strange as the day wore on. They had just meandered along the coastline, stopping occasionally for directions. They found a pharmacy where Ray filled his prescription for pain medication (a distinct relief) and they found a fair restaurant where they ordered carry-out before finding yet another lakeshore park to sit and eat at.

It was a rather nomadic day.

"I suppose we should consider heading back to Chicago," Turnbull finally said, and he was sort of surprised to feel a pang of regret for it. Despite the occasional moments of absurdity, the much less occasional moments of awkwardness and the sheer strange _randomness_ of it all, he found himself rather reluctant to call it a night and turn the nose of the Riv towards home.

"We should." Ray nodded, looking out over Lake Michigan. "Be the responsible thing to do, right?"

"Yes, it would."

"That what _you_ wanna do, Ren?"

He must not lie. He must not lie... There was something about the way Ray had learned to question him that made it inconveniently difficult to step around. "No. I cannot honestly say I'd prefer to go back. However, I'm not certain that sleeping in a car is legal in this particular state, and for that matter, at all advisable in _your_ state." It was almost a joke.

Ray huffed a laugh as he replied, apparently taking it as one. "You don't wanna go back, I don't wanna go back, there's nobody yankin' our leash to go back. Well. Maybe Frannie, but I shut the phone off hours ago, so she doesn't have a leash to go yankin' anymore. So we don't sleep in the car. So we get motel room. Or two. I'd say three, but I'm not _that_ protective of my car. Well. Who'm I kidding? 'Course I am. But I'm pretty sure they don't have beds big enough for her, so I gotta live with the parking lot."

"A-- a--"

"A room, Renny. You have those in Canada, right? Or do you gotta have a throw down with an Eskimo for the last rent-an-igloo?"

" _Ray_ , of course we have--" Oh. Right.

Turnbull still hadn't the faculties to deal with the question.

"I-- I--"

"You, you. You wanna room or not? I'm payin'."

The idea of sharing a room with Ray made him want to bounce his head off another wall. It made him want a couple of other things, but his mind wasn't the least bit prepared to name them.

Renfield Turnbull was becoming rapidly aware that he had a problem.

Neither did he want to leave Ray alone in his condition; at least back at the apartment Turnbull would've been in position to help him quickly and easily if something should go wrong.

Guilt tangled with embarrassment wrapped around awkwardness knotted up with some weird kind of hope looped through sheer, blinding panic and all of it got caught in the gears of his poorly-oiled brain, bringing everything to a grinding halt. He felt stuck on absolutely stupid for a several gaping seconds before he forced out a reply. "A double room. Hm. Will-- will do. Yes, Ray."

"Okay, a double room. So, hit the next gas station we come to, and I'll get directions to some place decent." Ray seemed completely satisfied with the notion of continuing this quite impromptu 'vacation' of sorts. "Maybe somewhere with a jacuzzi."

Turnbull's head thumped off of the steering wheel before he even had time to realize it was headed there.

"What? You think I'm gonna go for a Motel 6? Or some place where you're afraid of what kinda mutated dust bunnies there might be under the bed?" Ray's broad smirk was _audible_. "So, c'mon. Tally ho, or sally forth, or whatever you Mounties say when it's time to hit the trail again."

The urge to give over to a bit of hysterical laughter was there. Turnbull firmly quelled it, picking his head up and staring out straight ahead as he turned the key, commenting deadpan, "Yee-haw."

All right, so perhaps he cracked a small smile when Ray huffed another laugh.

 

Ray had not been joking when he said he wanted a jacuzzi -- it was after dark when they found a hotel suitable. It was back more towards Chicago, close to the Indiana Dunes again, but it really was very nice. Very expensive, as well. If not for Ray bumping shoulders lightly with him, Turnbull might well have sputtered for the next ten minutes at the price. It was easily a third of his monthly rent, for one single night.

"Hey, I've paid off all the family's bills, I already put cash in the trust funds, I should at least be able to spring for a nice room for a night here or there," Ray had said, after they had collected the keys. It was a first floor room, and it did, indeed, have a jacuzzi.

Which was where Ray was now, leaving Renfield to feel as though he had just stepped into another world entirely. It wasn't that he had never seen high-class surroundings; quite the contrary. It was that it had been quite a long time, and the room looked so pristine that he could see disaster everywhere he turned. It wasn't the more typical beige or gray, but a rather large, warm and homey room with two of the most absurdly fluffy beds he'd ever set eyes on.

So he did the only reasonable thing and stood still, and even then he felt he might be only one step away from applying Murphy's Law to something expensive.

Sentry duty in a hotel room wasn't something he ever thought he'd pull.

He glanced to the left. Then, slowly, the right.

Perhaps this entire day was some sort of elaborate plot set in motion by Inspector Thatcher. Some manner of carefully crafted mindgame designed as an entirely new and more insidious way of throwing Turnbull off balance; there could be some sort of hypnotic agent in the drugs prescribed to Ray to make him cooperate.

That had to be it. It was not a charitable accusation, but that didn't matter. Someone was waiting for him, somewhere, to pop out at the least likely second to laugh at him and point. Perhaps they would film the reveal. He would undoubtedly break something and perhaps dirty himself with its contents.

He'd inclined his head a fraction to check under the bed before he caught himself, forcing himself upright again.

Renfield Turnbull was going out of his mind.

...perhaps he should lay down.

It was with a great deal of slow care that he unlaced his boots.

Jeans and a t-shirt most assuredly _on_ , he crawled on top of the covers feeling just a little like they were judging him for his state of dress. He also sunk somewhat deeper into them than he had anticipated, which just added to the feeling. He was still trying to grasp exactly _what_ he was supposed to think about today and yesterday, and he was failing utterly.

Ray coming back nearly had him jumping out of his skin. Ray wearing the complimentary bathrobe had him deciding that the ceiling was absolutely fascinating. Oh, look. There was Texas, in the stucco.

"Get any stiffer, you'll be a corpse," Ray commented, mildly. He sounded a little confused, though by the way his feet hit the floor, he did seem to be moving better for both the pain medication and the hot soak.

"I am somewhat unaccustomed to a bed like this." It was a piece of the truth, so Turnbull took it.

Ray settled onto his own bed, after drawing back the covers, and then sighed in relief. "Almost better than mine."

Ah. Florida? No. Quickly, find all the states. "I'm relieved that you're comfortable, Ray." It was also a truth, and sincere. Ray being in pain made all kinds of desperate little pangs of 'fix it' fire off. Even if nothing but time, healing and rest could.

"Yeah. Me too." Ray apparently was ready to sleep. At least, he pulled his covers up. The room was nice and cool after a long day in the sun. "So, why are you all ratcheted up?"

Maybe he wasn't ready to sleep. Hello, Massachusetts. "I--" There was no simple answer to that question. He didn't even really know all of the reasons himself. Self-analyzation had never been his strong point. Observation of others? Certainly. Himself? Disasterous. "That is to say, I'm-- this situation is quite a change from the norm."

"Suppose so." Ray reached over -- Turnbull could all but hear the wince -- and turned the nightstand light off. "So, hey, I got somethin' I gotta say. Since you don't seem to wanna believe it.

"I still like you. I just spent the whole day wanderin' around wherever you wanted to go, 'cept this place, and I still like you. I had _fun_. Hear that?" When he didn't get an answer (for it was quite difficult to answer in something not entirely unlike a panic state), he continued, "I don't get you sometimes, Ren. I don't get how you can be all... I dunno, sharp and hard when you're runnin' down a suspect, but you can't string two words together when someone wants to be _nice_ to you. But I figure it like this: You think I want something. Hell if I know what, but you sure wanna give it, whatever it is, 'cause you think I'm gonna be disappointed if you don't.

"Not true. I don't want anything outta you except your company. Think about that for a few minutes. I don't want you to fall all over your boots trying to make me happy or whatever you think you gotta do. I just like hangin' out with you, and it gets a whole lot harder when you look like you wanna be anywhere else. If you really wanna be anywhere else, that's fine. But if you just wanna be anywhere else 'cause you're all up in your head about making _me_ happy, I'll thank you kindly to _can it_. 'Cause I ain't Benny and I ain't Thatcher and I don't expect you to. And for that matter, Ren, _you_ ain't Benny, and you ain't Thatcher, and you might be the only friend I got these days.

"So, there ya go. Have a speech. Do what you want with it, or don't. But yeah, I like you, and I ain't goin' anywhere, and if you wanna hang out with me, do it 'cause you want to, not 'cause you're tryin' to make me happy."

Silence stretched on, save for the odd huff of Turnbull's breath; abandoned words thought better of on the execution.

Perhaps he should be looking for provinces instead...

Pointless in the dark, wasn't it?

Turnbull hugged his arms to his chest tightly. He had a burning fight-or-flight urge that should _not_ reasonably go with a proclamation so kind as that. His jaw clenched. His hands flexed. It was useless to be wide-eyed in the dark, but he was; hands, he could bat away. Cruelty, he could throw off. Spitballs, he could endure. Even Francesca, he could flee. That? That stuck, and he felt nothing so much as pinned to that bed.

He briefly wondered what Ray would do if Turnbull just tore his way out of there in fear.

He couldn't do that to Ray.

"I-- I--" You. You. _Breathe_. "I like you, too." A few breaths passed; labored. "Goodnight, Ray."

There was a long moment of silence on the other side of the room, and then Ray replied, quietly, "'Night, Ren."

 

Ray hadn't been wrong when he'd said Turnbull would've _heard_ something like that gunman rounding the corner.

Sleep had come lightly, fitfully, in the emotional sense. He could keep physically still even when his brain couldn't. He was caught between feeling abject terror at Ray having been so easily able to read him and relief for the words he'd been given as a result. Even if believing them was beyond him. He couldn't think he wasn't a burden; so long as he could be useful, something good for Ray, he would be. When his usefulness ended he knew he would excuse himself before he made of himself a fool and a problem for Ray.

Hopefully, this time, he'd be able to determine where that line was.

For that matter, now was absolutely _not_ the time to be readable to anyone. If Ray could glean that much from him, the very possibility of his, ah... rapidly developing _problem_... God, if whatever this was slipped through even the slightest bit, Turnbull thought he'd probably jump on Thatcher's transfer to the middle of nowhere, north.

No, sleep was not easy. Light. Easily broken by something such as rapid breathing and the odd motion from the bed across from him. Loud to his ears, subtle though it should have been.

His immediate thought was that Ray must be in pain; it was formed in his mind before consciousness fully was, and it was a few seconds before Turnbull landed on the realization that it was probably a nightmare.

He was at a total loss for what to do about it.

He could wake Ray up. He could, but it seemed cruel when the man clearly needed sleep to heal. He could ignore it; that seemed equally cruel. Turnbull had been given a limited briefing on Ray's undercover operation in order to maintain the cover; he knew so far as it involved the mob. He could imagine what Ray Vecchio's nightmares might entail in the abstract.

The clear choices warred with each other. The former option seemed far beyond his place. The latter felt like withholding a duty. Neither felt right.

Ray's breath caught.

"Sssh."

Turnbull blinked in the dark. Ah. Yes. That had come from his own lips. No louder than the rustle of leaves, but for all he believed, it may as well have been a foghorn.

He sat frozen for a few seconds, arms tightening around himself again. Measuring his breaths slowly so as to be silent. Terrified he'd woken Ray.

Ray hitched another breath, but aside that, it remained even.

Perhaps it had helped...?

"Sssh..." Quieter, this time. As one might shush a child; something for which Turnbull felt no small amount of shame, once he realized.

It seemed to work anyway. Or perhaps the nightmare came to an end. He couldn't be sure. He didn't, entirely, want to be sure. But Ray's breathing settled back to something softer and slower, a more natural sleep-rhythm, and left him to the darkness and his own thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

"You sleep at all?" Ray asked, as he made sure he had everything in his pockets. It was well after sunrise, and the day outside looked as beautiful as the day before had. And Ray was still being painfully perceptive.

"Yes, Ray." It wasn't a lie; Turnbull had managed to doze here or there, though uncomfortably. Even though the bed had been reasonably comfortable, if a little too soft. His own mind was considerably less so, and had hounded him to the edge of exhaustion before he did manage about two hours of unbroken sleep. Then, awake again, he had slipped out of the room for a quick walk to settle his nerves, and had ended up politely badgering his way into a tour of the kitchen -- not a usual habit, but he did want to make certain it was up to standard for any complimentary breakfasts, or so he told himself -- before coming back. Ray slept for another fifteen minutes or so, and the day became vastly more complicated when he woke up.

"Uh huh." It was Ray's doubtful tone, and he looked back up again. He looked tired as well, though some better rested. "Not buyin' it."

The urge to squirm away from that gaze was rather overpowering. So, in lieu of doing so, Turnbull clasped his hands behind his back. "I did sleep, Ray."

"Not well. Gimme my keys."

He must have blinked for a moment too long before Ray held out his hand, palm up, beckoning with his fingers.

"C'mon, Ren. Keys. I stuck you in a hotel room that didn't work out for you, so the least I can do is drive."

Where Ray was getting the idea that he was _stuck_ here-- ah. He supposed maybe he was projecting some measure of wanting to escape in some visible manner. An internal wince later, Turnbull managed some authority and said, "I don't believe driving will be anything but a hindrance to your recovery. Taking the most direct route, we're a mere hour from Chicago, and I assure you, I have worked far harder under far less sleep in my life."

Ray's eyebrows went up slowly. It was an expression with some measure of defiance, some measure of affection, and some measure of being... well, mildly impressed. "You're tellin' me I can't have the keys to my own car?"

"Yes, Ray."

"What if I don't wanna go back to Chicago, yet?" Ray stepped closer, narrowing his eyes slightly. If not for the fact that there was something... well, _mischievous_ in that expression, Turnbull would have taken a step back. "What if I wanna go to the park again? Or go explore the lakeshore? I can't do that if you're too tired to drive, and I can't do that if you won't let me drive instead."

"Then _I_ shall take you anywhere you like, Ray." Those keys were staying put. Turnbull brought his arms front, crossing them tightly, and tipped his chin slightly up. All right.

He could do this, even if he was careful to keep reading any minute change in Ray's expression. "You slept no better than I..." He didn't want to reveal he'd known about the nightmare. "...if you're so keenly aware of my state. I can safely drive when short of sleep. Can you? In pain, under the influence of pain medication, short of sleep, and afflicted with terminal stubbornness to the point of driving when you may very well exacerbate most of the former?" It was his own way of throwing in a bit of mischievousness, trying to sense and play off of what was given to him.

He was still braced for a slug.

Ray's eyes narrowed a bare fraction more, like a flash, and then he took up a slow, prowling walk, a grin curving his mouth as he made to pace around Turnbull. Who was careful to turn with that pace to keep his back from Ray. His gait was still ginger, for obvious reasons, but it didn't seem to deter him.

"What if I said Michigan?" The tone was low and playful, and Turnbull was very aware of it, too. "What if I said New York?"

"I believe I would have to request vacation, in that case."

Ray came back around to where he started, and jerked his chin up, his grin going broad. "Yeah? Okay, I'll make you a deal. You wanna make a deal with me, Renfield?"

Hanging hard onto his composure, Turnbull worked his jaw and tipped his own chin up in response. "That would depend strongly upon your terms, Ray."

Ray never looked away, and he was still grinning. It was hard not to want to grin back. It made Turnbull feel almost like he did when he was chasing someone down with Ray on his heels; motion and focus, and something _instinctive_ , something that didn't involve bumbling. There was a brief alarm in his mind, but he canned it. He might regret canning it later, but he canned it now.

"I'll let you drive on two conditions. One: The minute you feel like your reflexes are gettin' bad, you pull over. And two: You pick anywhere but my Ma's house."

"I believe those terms are acceptable." And Turnbull was right back to drawing an utter blank when it came to where to go next. "...what if I said Toronto?" It was a joke challenge; he'd have to request quite a bit of vacation in that case. At least Ray's prescriptions would be cheaper. He blinked at his own odd thought.

"Don't push it, pal."

Turnbull laughed quietly, half relief. Half... something he wouldn't examine. "Understood, Ray."

"Uh-huh. So let's go. And if you really wanna visit the great boring white north, I won't stop you. Even stakin' a lean-to or whatever by the Riv's gotta be more comfortable than survivin' my family right about now, and hey, maybe you'll sleep better."

Turnbull took the keys from his pocket with a silly little spin of them on his finger, duty-smile and all. "Worry not, Ray, I have no serious ambitions of repatriation. And I can assure you that the hotel room was more than sufficient."

"Yeah, says that look you got like you might fall asleep standing up." Ray reached up with a grin, not-swatting that hand with the keys down. More like a good-natured little push. Then, somehow managing to look as though he had, indeed, won that joking little battle (even without his keys), he headed for the door.

 

Of course, bravado only lasted for about three hours.

"It's a nice lake shore," Ray said, his voice sounding both distant and dazed. "Wish I woulda seen more of it when I was a kid. Seems funny I didn't know about any of these places before now, even though they're close to home. I know Florida better'n I do the region I grew up in."

Turnbull didn't remove his arm from where it was laying across his eyes to reply, "Such is the way it often is." His own voice didn't sound all that alert in his ears, either.

It was, apparently, possible to be comfortable laying against the windshield of a car, parked under trees, on a hot summer day. While there was a contour to the Riviera's hood, the way the blanket was folded smoothed it out, and the angle of recline was rather perfect. The hood itself was not sloped down to any degree of angle to make it too slippery to feel secure. It was far harder than the hotel bed, and yet, it felt somehow safer.

Turnbull chalked up his willingness to do this with the fact that he really was exhausted, and his brain had apparently run itself in circles for so long, at such a frantic pace, that he simply couldn't find any resistance to the flow of the universe any longer. He had gone through so many emotions, so many advances and retreats, so many moments of insecurity, so many hours of thought that he had very little left with which to battle the invisible currents.

They were in Michigan. They had been in three states in two days, and he was laying on a car, and life was strange, and Ray was strange, and he was shockingly _content_. That, too, might have been some measure exhaustion.

"You ever see what a bowling alley looks like after it explodes?"

That, however, _was_ enough to make Renfield pull his arm off of his eyes to look over. Ray was blurry. He gave up holding his eyes open and settled back again where he was. "I cannot say I have, Ray." He kept his tone neutral. "Was anyone injured?"

"Nu uh. Happened in the middle of the night, a propane truck lost control. Bought it exactly one week before that. Married Stella three days before that. Got my divorce papers two weeks later. She finalized it herself after I got back to Chicago." Ray sounded as though he was smirking. "Month from Hell, Ren. It funny that I wanna laugh about it now?"

"I'm not certain. It seems natural, however." Turnbull himself gave up stifling a small hysterical laugh of his own. "I'm familiar with months from Hell, Ray. There are moments when one must laugh in order to avoid explosion." He blinked, giggling again. "...that may have been a poor choice of words."

"Maybe a just little bit, yeah." Ray was laughing with him, anyway, which was always a relief when Turnbull said something stupid. Even if the sound of that laughter was still strained.

"My apologies."

"Nah, no sorries. It was funny." A beat passed where Ray chuckled. "So, uh... months from Hell?"

Hm. Turnbull's smile shrank a bit. "Yes, Ray." Through half-lidded eyes he looked over, so far as he could without moving that resettled arm. Well. Better to laugh. "Have you ever seen the business end of a campaign bus?"

"...okay, I wouldn't say you got me beat, but that's a Hell of an image."

"Indeed. It was a Hell of an image coming at me as well." Turnbull picked up a hand to knock goofily off his forehead, screeching brakes sound effect and all. If a little broken for his giggle. He shook his head and covered his eyes again.

"Oh, _ow_ ," Ray said, laughing again. It was probably quite painful on his ribs, though less so taking into account medication. Still, Turnbull had come to realize that Ray would rather have laughed than not. "How bad?"

"Road burn, for the most part. A mild concussion. Quite an expensive suit that my campaign manager insisted I have, as well."

"A suit? _You?_ No way. Was it tailored?"

"It was, though I hadn't cared for the tailor or the suit itself. But they insisted that I needed one, and that only a 'schmuck' would campaign in his casual clothes."

"Huh. Well, if anyone could pull it off, you could. I don't see you bein' the suit and tie type."

Turnbull opened one eye to glance at Ray, honestly confused by the... compliment? Assessment? He wasn't sure. "...thank you." It was half a question, and he just kept on talking after to keep from thinking too much about it. "In any case, it was quite the debacle. There are times one can only laugh. I would imagine one of those times to be when a rain of bowling balls was neglected in the forecast. I can only think that the local meteorologist got _letters_."

He was reasonably proud of the laugh that got out of Ray. "20 percent chance of rain, high of 90 billion, humidity at stupid percent, and watch out for falling _pins_ \--"

"--perhaps the driver was simply attempting to pick up the _spare_ \--"

"--you sure your suit wasn't white with red rings on the collar?"

Oh, Lord, comfortable slope or not, they both might slide right off the Riv. Turnbull was alternating guilt for the pain it must be causing Ray and internally giddy for getting him going like that. His _own_ sides were starting to ache; it had been a very long time since he'd laughed like that. The kind that came unbidden and mostly uncontrollable. It was getting somewhat harder to chalk it into the exhaustion column. "Quite certain, though perhaps the driver of my campaign bus thought otherwise."

"Maybe his mind was on the story outta Florida where flaming bowling shoes rained down outta the sky like somethin' outta Revelation. 'The End is Nigh and please make sure you don't wear street shoes on the lanes.'"

"That being among the more confusing revelations Saint John will have received, I'm sure..."

Ray chuckled a little more, then took a moment to catch his breath. "Yeah, probably. 'Cause I'm pretty sure the Lamb referred to wasn't part of the gyros we sold."

Turnbull picked up his head just to give Ray a wide-eyed look of affectionate incredulity; he thunked his head back to the Riv, swiping his hand down his face to laugh.

"What? You started it!" It was playful, Turnbull knew. He was all too aware of the smile on Ray's face.

"So I did, Ray." He pressed his lips together, looking over at Ray still, trying to stuff back the giggles. It was a long look, or so Turnbull self-consciously thought. For sanity's sake, he let go of his laughter again, if only for a valid reason to look away and cover his face. He had another joke in the works, but it died about then.

The sigh that came from Ray's side of the car could only be called content. And his smile was still clear in his voice, but colored now more warm than mirthful. "Yeah. Definitely gotta do that more."

An alarm klaxon was braying through Turnbull's mind, a sound that was decidedly 'no, no, no, no, no...' His laughter was probably edged hysterical before he put it back down. It was a nice excuse for his red face. "You're... you're very skilled at inspiring it."

"Yeah? I'll remember that."

The want to squirm was ridiculous and overwhelming. Turnbull shut his eyes, covering them with his arm again.

It was a content quiet, even so.

 

 

The drive back toward Chicago had an air of finality to it, to Turnbull.

He had actually fallen asleep draped on the Riv, a lost number of hours where no time passed and he was reasonably sure could have continued on the rest of the day comfortably, if Ray hadn't gently woken him back up to drive back home. Aside a slightly sore back, he could find no complaints. It was strange to be able to fall asleep like that, in the open, sitting next to someone else. Even more strange that he didn't jump out of his skin when Ray woke him back up. Snapping from a state of sleep and right into motion was something Turnbull had picked up at Depot, and it was almost hardwired now. But Ray had been so quiet and soft about it that he didn't end up leaping off of the car, only tensed a moment to get his bearings, and was able to relax again a couple moments later.

Getting back in the car was all the harder for it.

There was something a bit otherworldly about his memory of the weekend even as it was still in progress. An openness and playfulness to it that he honestly believed wouldn't last to Monday. As unnerved as it left him, he was reluctant to give it back.

He would have to. Ray was entirely too good at reading him to let it go on.

He felt himself slowly putting himself back into his mental box. Piece by piece. It wasn't much he'd exposed, in the grand scheme, but it was enough to be frighteningly uncomfortable.

At the very least, 'Detective' was permanently out the window. He liked Ray's name. Ray would never let him take it back; for that matter, he didn't want to.

He drew it out as long as he could, holding on to the last of their ride home. Chattering, sometimes. Listening, too. Seeing how many smiles he could inspire in Ray for the simple pleasure of doing so. Finding it was easier than he thought it could be. The harder part was the realization, put away only moments after he had it, that this weekend wasn't the first time Ray had smiled like that. It was, however, the most he'd smiled this much in the past few months. Maybe, even, the past year or more.

"Oh, windy city, how I love thee," Ray said, looking out the window at a pair of homeless people sharing what could only be a bottle of alcohol in a brown paper bag. It was a statement that sounded like quite a mix between sarcasm and sincerity. "Nothin' like the delicate smells of winos in the evening. _Eau du secretions_ in various variations."

Utterly despite the vague ache in his chest, Turnbull shuddered once at that. " _Ray_. That's hardly sensitive."

"Oh, yeah? Well, my nose is, and it ain't too happy right now. It's gotta be some prime stuff to get all the way into the car, passin' by at twenty-five." Ray stuck his nose up, but it was quite clearly teasing. Though, after a moment, he asked a little more seriously, "You wanna hang onto the Riv for awhile longer? I dunno when I'll be allowed to drive again. Well, when the _doc_ will say I can, which'll probably be after I really can. Frannie'll probably go sniffin' the seats or somethin' if I bring it home with me, though."

Turnbull couldn't imagine what she'd smell aside the leftover stench of his own awkwardness. Perhaps tinged with beach grass. Or wino, now, but Turnbull was hardly going to say that. "I..."

"You..." It was drawn, Ray's eyebrows going slowly up with it.

"Hm. If... if... That is to say, yes, Ray. I will take very good care of it, I assure you."

"You wouldn't be in that seat if I figured anything else, Ren."

"Understood, Ray." Turnbull was painfully sure Ray put more trust in him than he was remotely worthy of.

His thumb ticked once or twice over the steering wheel. Streets passed, ticking away the journey.

"Guess I gotta face the music. If you can call Frannie musical. Broken kazoo musical, maybe. Thanks for savin' me. It was fun."

"The... ah, pleasure was entirely mine, Ray." Even as he said it, Turnbull was chewing down a grin for that metaphor.

"No, it was not _entirely_ yours, Renfield," Ray replied in teasing formal tones. "Did I not just say it was fun? Or did creative-IV nurse spike the pills, too?"

"...yes, Ray, you did."

"Uh-huh. 's what I thought."

How Turnbull could smile when he was letting this go was beyond him. It just didn't last long enough.

 

Francesca Vecchio was on the phone.

Raymond Vecchio was ready to leap through that phone and strangle her. If he could leap, anyway. He didn't think he could leap, but he if he could have, he would have. The Riv was safely parked, the taxi was called, and not even two seconds after he hung up from that call, his cell was ringing.

"Hey, since when did I have to report to _you_ when I wanna spend a weekend away?" he demanded, then exchanged a commiserating look with Ren, who was standing sentry to make sure he didn't end up getting mobbed by rampaging igloo salesmen or whatever.

"You scared the He-- ow, Ma! I was gonna say 'heck!' You scared the heck out of us! What do you think you're doing, running off all weekend without so much as a call, right after you're out of the hospital?"

"Havin' a damn good time," Ray answered, with a grin. Just because he could. Just because he knew she would _hear_ it, and it would drive her crazy. "Hey, you know my partner's a pretty good driver?"

He caught the look down of the corner of his eye and managed to give Ren a wink as he looked back up.

"I know what you're doing, Ray. It's not going to work, though, because I don't _care_ what you say. I caught him once, I can catch him again."

It took about two seconds for that to sink into Ray's brain and he swung a look back at the Mountie. Wait. What? "You dated my sister?"

Well, that answered that. Ren got his 'Mountie in the Headlights' look, opening his mouth and turning red all over again. Ray was starting to wonder if the man could auto-blush on command.

"That's right, Ray. So take your misguided--"

Ray hung up on her. Narrowed his eyes. "You dated my sister."

"I-- Ray, it was--" Ren flicked a glance to the left, no doubt gauging the distance from his door. Then he looked back, straightening up and going all duty-and-honor and all that. "I assure you, it was quite brief. While your sister is a very... very..." He was apparently having a hard time defining Frannie. "...sweet, and quite pretty woman, it simply failed to go further than two dates."

"Two dates. You sleep with her?" Ray already knew that answer, but he was having some measure of fun watching Renfield squirm where he stood. "'Cause if you did..."

"No. No. No, no." Ren was gonna give himself whiplash if he shook his head any harder. "No. I most emphatically did not sleep with your sister."

Ray stepped closer, tilting his head to the side. He didn't look away. "And you never will." It wasn't a question. He was having a very hard time not laughing about it, really. Mostly because he knew Frannie very well and he knew Ren pretty well now too, and that could have only ended up in flames. Not the good kinda flames, either. Bowling alley meets propane truck kind.

Ren huffed half a nervous laugh. "No, Ray. Never."

"Right. Good. 'Cause if you do, you know what would happen?"

"I would find out what it was like to be a bowling pin?" Both of Renny's eyebrows went up. Ray was so surprised by it that he almost laughed. "Well, I would find out _again_ , at any length."

"Yeah. Campaign bus redux." Ray couldn't keep the smile off his face anymore. He caught a glimpse of the taxi, then looked back again. He was sort of surprised at how much he didn't wanna go, and he just didn't think to consider that it was for more than avoiding his family.

He didn't think about it, he just did it. Stepped in, looped an arm around Ren's shoulders, and gave him half a careful hug, which was the best he could do with bruised ribs. It felt like the entirely natural thing to do, even when he got stiff, dumbfounded Mountie in answer. "Thanks. I did have fun."

And then he turned and got into the taxi, mentally preparing himself for the chaos that was his family.

Ray Vecchio was in trouble. He just didn't know it yet.


	5. Epilogue

Turnbull wiped a clear space in the fog of the mirror and planted hands either side of it, staring at himself.

Wide, tired blue eyes stared back.

At some point in the tub, looking up through the distortion of bad-quality water, the fact that he had given ground to his _problem_ came painfully, wonderfully to fore. He hadn't seen the ceiling. Just the play of another man's smile across his memory. And green eyes.

He was going to have to name it some time. He blinked at himself and took a breath, determined to give it voice.

"I'm--" No. The sentence died with a sigh.

He stared until he had to wipe the mirror clear again.

"I-- I--" You. You.

Clenching his jaw at himself, he tipped his chin up in defiance. He could say the words. He could.

"I'm--" Blink. Blink. Sigh.

He shut his eyes.

"I'm going to bed."


End file.
